


Dating Draco Malfoy

by QueenofThyme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Astronomy, Banter, Bisexual Harry Potter, Dating Advice, Denial of Feelings, Gay Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Matchmaking, Pining, Romance, Texting, Trans Draco Malfoy, Trans Harry Potter, Veritaserum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24584425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofThyme/pseuds/QueenofThyme
Summary: Draco Malfoy is dating his way through Harry Potter’s endless pool of ex-boyfriends. With the help of Harry’s expert dating advice, he just might find exactly who he’s looking for...
Relationships: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 212
Kudos: 287





	1. Dating Theodore Nott

Harry eyes his wand without blinking as it rises to the canopy of the scarlet four-poster bed. He’s been perfecting this pointless skill all week, lying in bed during classes so he can’t be interrupted. This is the first time the wand has made it past the third notch in his bed post. 

“Potter.”

As the familiar drawl hits Harry’s ears, his wand immediately tumbles back down, slapping him in the face with an unnecessary spark. “Sorry,” he whispers, rubbing it gently with his hand in penance. He rolls over to glower at the unwelcome intruder standing in the doorway of his dorm: Draco Malfoy, his archrival.

“If I had known you were polishing your wand, I’d have rescheduled my visit.”

“Hilarious, Malfoy,” Harry deadpans. “You know I don’t have one of those.”

Malfoy wrinkles his thin, pale nose. “I know no such thing.”

Harry shrugs. The Daily Prophet has a whole detailed section on exactly how Harry Potter has and ‘hasn’t’ progressed in his transition. There’s an update each week. Once, in fifth year, there was a helpful diagram. (Hermione’s regular note to the editor was twice as long that week. Something about objectification of minors…) Point is, Harry’s long given up on any expectations of privacy. 

Malfoy, the stubborn pointy git, doesn’t budge from the doorway. His school robes are crisp, as if pressed between classes, but his Slytherin green tie is loose at his neck revealing flushed skin. 

Harry stares openly, waiting. “Are you going to stand there all day?”

“Perhaps.” Malfoy runs his long fingers over the grooves of the entrance, slow and painful. “It’s an awfully charming spot.”

“Have it your way, then.” It would be simpler to use a spell, but just for the drama of it, Harry jumps from his bed and manually slams the door in Draco Malfoy’s infuriating face.

Except Malfoy throws a polished leather-bound foot out to catch it. He’s always been quick. “Will you kindly grant me an audience?”

“It’s me, Malfoy.” Harry lets the door swing back open. “You don’t have to talk all holier-than-thou aristocrat.”

“Will you grant me a conversation?”

Harry rolls his eyes and steps aside. “Please, _do_ come in, Mr Malfoy.” It’s been a while since they’ve bantered like this. Harry assumed Malfoy had mellowed for eighth year because they’d barely spoken two words to each other since the Welcoming Feast, but maybe not. Maybe he’s just been holding back.

Malfoy paces the entire room, wall to wall, his ice grey eyes raking over every window, light fitting and corner, before he props himself up against the post of Ron’s bed, Harry’s absent dormmate. “As you know,” he says casually – or as casually as one can with such a posh drawl – “you’re trans.”

Harry resists the urge to snort. “Yes, funnily enough I _do_ know that.”

“And as you also know,” Malfoy continues – his eyes flicker to the door and he lowers his voice – “I’m trans.”

Harry’s known about Malfoy being trans since fourth year when, in a moment of unexpected solidarity at the Yule Ball, Malfoy had privately revealed he’d transitioned before attending Hogwarts. Furthermore, that his _charming_ parents had obliviated all their family and friends to parade their newly accepted son as the perfect cis male heir to the Malfoy line. At the time, when Harry was still struggling to get everyone to unlearn his dead name, it had been a great comfort to have someone who understood him, and he naively assumed it would be a turning point for the relationship with his archrival.

Of course, Draco Malfoy being Draco Malfoy, that hadn’t been the case. The next time they saw each other, it was like nothing had changed. Insults, hexes and rivalry returned. However, despite all the fuel provided by The Daily Prophet, Malfoy never made fun of Harry’s gender and scowled at his lackies whenever they ventured to try. Harry’s never worked out if it was from empathy or fear of retaliation. 

Still, as unexpected as the revelation had been at the time, it’s old news now. Harry drops back into his bed, resting both hands behind his head. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a riveting conversationalist?”

“Could you kindly provide the courtesy of hearing me out?”

Harry throws his wand up, catches and then throws it again. It’s not quite the same as levitation, but it’s almost as satisfying. “That depends – are you getting to the point soon?”

The goading works and Harry’s happy to hear an impatient huff from Malfoy. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the rivalry. Eighth year has been particularly dull.

“Well,” Malfoy says, irritation leaking into his voice, “you’re gay.”

“Bi,” Harry corrects.

“Since when?”

Harry groans. It’s bad enough he had this conversation with Headmistress McGonagall three weeks ago (don’t ask) and now, Malfoy? “I don’t have to have been with a girl to know I’m bi. But for your information I’ve been with loads of girls. I dated Ginny for like five months!”

“I have no recollection of that.”

“My apologies, Malfoy. Would you like me to text you every time I get lucky?”

_That_ shuts Malfoy up, if only for a second. But he doesn’t leave, and now Harry can hear the bastard muttering to himself – something about ‘muggles’ and ‘texting’ and ‘unnecessary’. Doesn’t Malfoy have a class to be in?

“Continue,” Harry prompts with a sigh realising Malfoy’s never going to leave until he gets what he wants. He lets his wand fall to the bed.

“I am also gay.”

“Noted,” Harry says, ignoring the ‘also’, in favour of getting rid of Malfoy faster.

“So, I was considering these similarities in bed last night–”

Harry sits up. “In bed?” Now that he can see Malfoy’s face, he notices the flush from his neck creeping up to the edges of sharp cheekbones.

“–and naturally I came to the conclusion that we would be best suited to–”

“To what?”

“Potter,” Malfoy drawls, letting the name stretch more than usual – he does that when he’s especially irritated, or at least he used to – “if you’ll let me finish a sentence, you’ll find out.”

“Sorry,” Harry says quickly, “continue.”

“ _As I was saying_ ,” – Malfoy’s eyes bore into Harry daring him to interrupt again – “it just makes sense for you and me to help each other out a little.”

Harry’s brain short-circuits. Either he accidentally injected his testosterone twice this week or Draco Malfoy – his archrival, ex-Death Eater, son of Lucius Malfoy, stomper of Harry’s face, pureblood elitist and did he mention archrival? – is propositioning him for sex. He clears his throat. “You want to _help me out_?”

Malfoy shrugs, like he offers sex to his archrivals all the time. “Yes, but I suppose what I really need is–”

“Yes?”

“Dating advice. I need dating advice.”

Harry’s whole body, which has been on alert – a flight or fight (or fuck?) response – slumps at the anti-climax. “What?”

“Nobody other than you and my parents know I’m trans and I have no interest in dating some guy who doesn’t understand. You’re trans and you’ve dated plenty of guys, so it follows that you must know which ones are worthy of my time.”

Harry’s brain struggles to keep up. Malfoy is not propositioning him for sex, but somehow what he is asking for is equally ridiculous, if not more. “Are you saying you want to date my exes?”

“I’m not above it.”

“You want to date my exes,” Harry repeats. If only someone else were around to verify Harry isn’t hallucinating. Because it certainly feels like he’s tripping on something very strong. Or this is a dream. Or Malfoy’s taking the piss. He must be taking the piss.

But Malfoy crosses his arms, his chin raised. Forever the proud one even in this ridiculous situation. “Yes, and you’re going to help me.”

“Why would I do that?” Harry asks. It’s a fair enough question, they’re practically strangers to each other these days. If they didn’t share classes together – not that Harry attends many of those – then they’d never see each other at all.

Malfoy’s lips twist, his face instantly turning sour. “You won’t help me? I confided in you at the Yule Ball despite everything it cost me–”

“What it cost _you_?”

“And now I ask you one simple thing in return–”

“I saved your life!”

The hard lines of Malfoy’s face soften. “I haven’t forgotten,” he says quietly.

Heat returns unbidden to Harry’s skin, and not the good kind but the tortuous, itching, hopeless kind that only the memory of Fiendfyre can produce. He lets the memory play out in his body, focusing on what the fire could not touch: the cool rush of flying and Malfoy’s clammy hand in his. When it passes, Harry sits up, swinging his legs off the bed and perching on the edge.

“You don’t need me to find a date.”

“No,” Malfoy agrees, “I need you to find one worth keeping.”

“And” – Harry is careful to keep his voice light to avoid another argument – “what do I get out of this?”

Malfoy waves his hand around airily. “A sense of achievement or whatever it is you do-gooders feed on.”

Harry snorts. Sometimes Malfoy is so _Malfoy_. Still, he considers the proposition (of the non-sex kind). He’s always wanted to know the impression he’s left with his exes and they’d certainly be more loose-tongued with his archrival… “Let’s say I set you up with a few of my exes, and I’m not saying I will, but _if_ I did, I’d want a full report of the date and everything they say about me.”

“If you want a complete play-by-play, you might as well lurk around in your Invisibility Cloak again.”

Harry grins. Perhaps this is worth his time after all. Watching Malfoy flounder hopelessly with his exes while finding out what they really think about him? Sounds like a jackpot. He stands up.

“That was a joke,” Malfoy says as Harry approaches him. “ _Potter_ ,” he drawls warningly, “that was a joke.”

The protest only makes Harry grin wider. He sticks out his hand. “Take it or leave it.”

Malfoy’s narrowed eyes appraise Harry’s hand. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘arsehole’, then sighs in that drawn out, over-dramatic typically Malfoy way. He meets Harry’s eye as they shake on it. “Deal.”

When they drop hands, Malfoy immediately turns to leave, but Harry is just getting started. “Wait,” he says to Malfoy’s retreating back. “Any criteria for me to narrow your potential dates down or do you want to be surprised?”

Malfoy turns back to Harry. “How many exes are there to choose from?”

“Um...er...” Harry rubs the back of his neck beneath thick black hair. He’s been trying to magically thin it with little success.

“You’re not telling me you’ve dated so many people you’ve lost count?”

“No, I know,” Harry lies, frantically attempting the maths in his head. “I’m just mentally eliminating the unavailable ones to get a better idea of your dating prospects. There are also a couple of international guys that would make dating hard. Sure, they can Apparate back and forth but if you’re a world famous Quidditch player, you don’t really have enough time–”

“Yes, alright, Potter,” Malfoy says dismissively with a wave of his hand. (Harry relaxes.) “Enough Rambling. Pick whomever. I trust your judgement.”

“You do?”

Malfoy pivots around and continues his exit. “You know where to find me when you’ve secured a date,” he says over his shoulder.

“I do?”

“Good evening, Potter.”

Harry drops back onto his bed, exhaustion flooding through him. What has he gotten himself into?

* * *

Three days later, with Hermione’s directions, Harry makes his way to Malfoy’s private dorm in the east wing of the castle. He passes by the entrance four times before he notices a barely perceptible door – a non-detection charm perhaps? – beside a portrait of a Scottish Wizard who announces himself as Glanmore Peakes.

He shoots a polite smile at the portrait and raps on the door lightly. “Malfoy?”

“Do come in, Mr Potter,” mocks a voice from inside.

Harry turns the knob and enters, immediately taken aback by the grand bedroom he’s stepped into. Floor to ceiling windows on the wall opposite showcase the Forbidden Forest and blanket the space in natural light. A four poster King bed with emerald green sheets hugs the adjacent wall. There’s even a matching green shag rug at its foot. Closer to the entrance is a snug coffee table and two lounge chairs, also green. It’s like a Slytherin’s bachelor pad. _It’s Draco Malfoy’s bachelor pad._

Malfoy, the bachelor in question, lounges on the bed, textbooks and parchments splayed out around him. He’s dressed in school robes, but he’s chucked off his shoes and there are ink stains on his fingers. He holds out his wand, mutters a spell, and the parchment stacks itself in one neat pile.

Harry crosses the room to stand over him. “ _This_ is your dorm?”

Malfoy shrugs with a lazy smirk. “I have connections.”

“Not any more you don’t,” Harry points out. In fact, if anything, Harry has more connections now. Why is he dorming with Ron in cramped single beds with one tiny window alcove between them when Malfoy is living like this?

“Potter, I no longer rely on my father to get what I want, if that’s what you’re snidely referring to,” Malfoy says, his smirk growing infuriatingly smug. “I make my own connections now.”

Harry cannot think of any connection at Hogwarts that would afford him a room like this. He’s chummy with the supreme authority, Headmistress McGonagall, and she would never allow such special treatment, even for Harry. Knowing Malfoy, he must’ve scammed a Professor out of the room somehow.

“If you’re so well connected, you shouldn’t need me to curate your dates for you.”

Malfoy’s smug face drops in favour of a familiar scowl. “I trust you have a reason to be disturbing my lunch.”

Harry bites down further questions about Malfoy’s mysteriously indulgent dorm. He’s familiar with his archrival’s style – too many questions at once scares him off. To get results, you have to tread slowly, let him reveal the information on his own terms. So, he acquiesces: “You have a date Friday night.”

Malfoy slides from the bed – the sheets must be silk – and uncharacteristically clasps his hands on Harry’s shoulders, his eyes so bright for a moment they appear silver. “Why didn’t you say so immediately?”

Harry’s eyes drop to where Malfoy’s long fingers curl over his left shoulder, and then his right. Malfoy pulls his hands back sharply, as if only just realising who he’s talking to, and instead nudges Harry to the coffee table.

“Take a seat, Potter.”

“So formal,” Harry comments, planting himself in one of the lounge chairs. “Do you have tea and biscuits too?”

Malfoy frowns at the question as he lowers himself in the opposite chair. “Of course I have tea.” He raises his wand and summons a teapot from his bedside while he manually pulls out a pair of teacups and saucers from under the coffee table.

Harry pouts. “No biscuits? I like the kind with cream inside.”

Malfoy slams a teacup on a saucer in front of Harry harder than necessary. “Who is it?”

“One of your lot, actually,” Harry says as Malfoy serves the tea. “Theodore Nott.”

The teapot shakes in Malfoy’s hand and he spills it on Harry’s saucer before righting himself. He finishes pouring his own tea and sets it down before focusing narrowed eyes on Harry.

“ _You_ dated Theodore Nott.”

Harry lifts his teacup, ignoring the saucer, and leans back in the chair. “What can I say? I have a weakness for intelligent men.”

It might be Harry’s imagination but he swears he sees Malfoy’s eye twitch. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m afraid _Nott_.”

Malfoy doesn’t react to the marvellous quick-witted joke. Harry stifles his lonely self-satisfied laughter by sipping his tea. The taste is familiar but strange. He’s never had a tea like it. He takes another sip, greedily trying to place it.

“Did he break up with you because you kept making that pun?” Malfoy asks drily.

“No, actually, _I_ broke up with _him_.”

Malfoy’s nose wrinkles. “Oh, so he’s not good enough for you, but he’ll do fine for me?”

Harry laughs at Malfoy’s irrational dramatics. “You’re the one who wanted to date my exes. That’s kind of a given.”

Malfoy snorts but he doesn’t challenge further, a clear win for Harry. He raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think Nott and I are compatible?”

“He’s a Slytherin, you’re a Slytherin. He’s tall, you’re tall.”

“I am not tall, Potter,” Malfoy interjects. “You are just so short you think everyone is tall.”

Harry lets the insult fly over his head and continues. He’s braved far worse. “Theo’s very clever. He has this workshop where he rebuilds magical arte–”

“You fucked in his workshop, didn’t you?”

Tea dribbles from Harry’s mouth back into his cup and he hurries to right himself, wiping the back of his hand over his chin. He clears his throat, attempting to maintain his dignity. “Like I said, I have a weakness for intelligent men.”

The indirect confession hangs in the air for too long. Malfoy takes a sip of his tea. Then Harry. Then Malfoy. Then Harry. Then, finally:

“How did you get Nott to agree to this?”

“It didn’t take much convincing,” Harry says truthfully. He had cornered Theo in the library during breakfast and the conversation barely lasted two minutes. “He likes you.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. “Nott doesn’t like anyone. He stomps around in a permanent state of grouchy teenage angst.”

Harry tilts his head, remembering his brief tryst. Theo certainly wasn’t so grouchy when he was–

Malfoy slams his teacup down. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, Potter. Stop it immediately. I do _not_ want to know.”

“Was that a pun?”

Malfoy scowls in answer and Harry laughs. It truly is a pleasure to rile Malfoy up, especially when Harry has the upper hand – when he has something Malfoy wants.

“You’re meeting Theodore for a drink at The Three Broomsticks at 9pm.”

“The Three Broomsticks?”

“It’s a casual atmosphere. Busy too, so if there’s a lull in the conversation, the silence won’t be deafening. Plus, service is quick and–”

“And there’s plenty of space for you to lurk in your cloak.”

Harry grins. “Perfect, right?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes and leans back in his lounge chair. His robes remain perfectly straight, uncrumpled by the movement. It must be a charm.

Harry drains the last of the delicious tea and sets the teacup back on the saucer. “This tea blend is great. Did you make it?”

“No,” Malfoy snaps, without further explanation. Then he rises and retreats to his bed, picking up his school shoes on the way. “Well, unlike you, I have another class, so if you don’t mind...”

Harry stands, irritation already building from Malfoy’s tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Potter, you turn up to a class twice a week, three times at _best_ ,” Malfoy says derisively as he crosses one leg over the other to tie his laces.

Harry’s jaw clenches. So what if he’s missed a few classes? It’s not like it makes a difference. He receives an Outstanding grade for every assignment, no matter if he’s turned it in or not. “Well, actually,” he says to Malfoy, “I’m going now too.”

“Really?” Malfoy flicks his eyes over Harry with a smirk. “You have your Potions textbooks?”

Harry crosses his arms. “No, Hermione said I could borrow hers.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow and his smirk grows. “Potions was this morning. This afternoon is Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

That slimy bastard! “Oh, well aren’t you clever,” Harry snaps. He stomps over to the door, wrenches it open, and leaves, flicking his wand so it slams with a satisfactory thump.

He returns to his dorm. Defence Against the Dark Arts can wait until next week.

* * *

Hermione is prodding Harry in the shoulder. Why is Hermione prodding him in the shoulder?

“What?” he snaps, looking up. He’s been focused on non-verbally turning his dinner plate of mashed potato into roasted potatoes.

Hermione and Ron exchange looks – they’re always doing that. “I was just asking if you found Draco’s dorm alright,” she says in her tip-toe voice. The one she uses exclusively when Harry’s irritated. He hasn’t heard any of her other voices in a long time.

“What were you doing in Malfoy’s dorm?” Ron asks. Unlike Hermione, his voice is the same, but he does that expression, something like pity, and it makes Harry’s skin crawl.

“Yeah,” he answers Hermione. “Nothing,” he answers Ron.

His friends exchange another look. ‘Stop it,” he mutters, returning his focus to his mash. He pictures roast potatoes, closes his eyes, concentrates on the transfiguration spell and–

“Bloody hell, Harry!”

“Was that non-verbal a _nd_ wandless magic?”

Harry opens his eyes to a jacket potato. He grimaces and pushes the plate away. He hates jacket potatoes.

* * *

On Friday night, Harry arrives at The Three Broomsticks early, his Invisibility Cloak safely tucked in his extendable trousers pocket. He means to have a quick solo Butterbeer or two, but he spots Malfoy already at the bar. Reluctantly, he takes the stool next to him.

“Potter,” Malfoy greets without looking up.

“Malfoy.”

Harry orders a Butterbeer and eyes up Malfoy in his peripheral vision. He’s wearing a full-length black wizard’s robe with buttons that run all the way up his long neck. Two empty glasses sit on the bar in front of him, a third held in trembling hands.

“Are you nervous?” Harry asks.

“No,” Malfoy responds immediately and then places his Butterbeer down with a sigh. “Yes, but it’s my first date, I’m allowed to be nervous.”

“You’ve never been on a date before?”

“Will you keep your voice down?” Malfoy snaps, glancing over his shoulder. No one is paying them any attention. “I’ve been busy.”

The bartender sets a Butterbeer down in front of Harry and he picks it up quickly, eager to warm his hands. “When you asked for my help, I figured you weren’t well-experienced, but no dates, _ever_? Not even Parkinson or Zabini?”

“Don’t even think about dating my best friends, Potter.”

Harry quickly chugs his Butterbeer to hide his face but he doesn’t fool Malfoy. He’s never been a great liar.

“You _didn’t_.”

“Parkinson and I hooked up one time,” Harry admits, setting down his glass. In fact, it was only two weeks ago, in a forgotten classroom near the library. They’d both been wandering the castle after hours and one thing led to another…“It wasn’t even a date.”

“Excellent, Potter, now I can’t look Pansy in the eye.” Malfoy downs the rest of his third Butterbeer and then turns to Harry with accusing eyes. “Is there anyone you haven’t fucked?”

Harry pretends to think about it. “You?”

Malfoy doesn’t laugh. “Apologies to ruin your perfect streak,” he drawls, his nose wrinkled.

“You keep me humble,” Harry retorts with a wink – just to really rile Malfoy up – and then disappears under the Invisibility Cloak with his Butterbeer. Theodore Nott will be here any moment. 

“I can hear you slurping,” Malfoy whispers in his direction almost immediately. “And don’t breathe so heavily.”

Harry takes a few steps back and is pleased when Malfoy looks around warily, unable to sense him anymore. He paces the pub, eavesdropping on snippets of conversation. It’s wrong, of course, but there’s something freeing about it. Harry’s spent all his life under the close lens of all the wizarding world, it’s nice to flip the switch.

Harry’s finished and discarded his Butterbeer discreetly on an empty table by the time Theodore Nott arrives. He’s wearing black robes almost identical to Malfoy’s except he’s left the buttons of the neck undone. Harry recognises the look: Theo’s ready to land tonight. Harry will have to intercede if it comes to that. If this is Malfoy’s first date, he’s hardly ready for anything further, especially not with the very experienced Theodore Nott.

Theo scans the room, his hands resting casually in the pockets of his robes. With his clean undercut, dark hooded eyes and relaxed posture, _oh_ _man_ , he looks cool. Harry recalls exactly why he fell for him. When Theo spots Malfoy, his face shows no sign, but he strides over to the bar and takes the neighbouring seat. Harry follows, careful to keep his distance, and ends up hovering behind them awkwardly. He wishes Malfoy had chosen a proper table so he could’ve sat in the corner.

Rather than greet Malfoy, Theo simply orders a Firewhisky. _Cool._

“Make that two,” Malfoy says to the bartender smoothly. Well, it would be smooth except his thigh is jiggling under the bar table at an alarming speed. Instinctively, Harry stills it by reaching out his hand. Malfoy jerks away from the touch but the jiggling stops.

Then there’s silence. As they wait for their Firewhisky. As they receive their Firewhisky. As they drink their Firewhisky. It’s unbearable. Theo is unaffected, of course, he’s always been the smooth silent type, but Harry can see Malfoy unravelling in it. His eyes dart between his Firewhisky and Theo and his mouth keeps opening and closing.

“Say something!” Harry whispers in his ear.

Malfoy scowls in Harry’s direction but the interruption, at least, seems to jumpstart him. He turns back to Theo and clears his throat. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Theo says without looking up.

“Do you come to Hogsmeade often?” Malfoy asks, and Harry thumps him on the back. He’s going to have to try harder than that to impress Theo.

Theo grunts noncommittedly giving the question the answer it deserves.

“I’m here quite regularly, actually,” Malfoy blabs, clearly misinterpreting Harry’s thump, “I–”

Theo pushes back from the bar abruptly, stands, and heads into the bathrooms without announcement. Harry takes the vacated seat.

“ _Do you come to Hogsmeade often?”_ he hisses at Malfoy.

Malfoy, at least, has the decency to look ashamed. “I panicked! What do I say?”

“Anything! Tell him he looks good tonight, ask him about school, tell him a funny story. Just say _something_!”

Malfoy sets his elbows on the bar and rubs his temples. “It’s not that easy, he’s not exactly Mr Conversation.”

“That’s his thing,” Harry explains. “He’s acting cool because he likes you. Or did, until you asked him _Do you come to Hogsmeade often_?”

Malfoy winces and then his eyes flick to something behind Harry. Harry leaps from the seat, just in time before Theo plants himself back down.

Malfoy takes a deep breath and Harry cringes proactively. “You look good tonight how’s school did you hear about the warlock who lost his hearing?” He says without pause.

Harry slaps himself in the forehead. Malfoy is a disaster. Harry never should have set him on a date without testing his basic conversation skills first. He starts brainstorming exit strategies: he could burst into The Three Broomsticks claiming a fight has started in Hogsmeade. Or perhaps knock Theo’s Firewhisky so it drenches his robes. Or better yet, he could–

“You think I look good,” Theo says, and surprisingly, he still sounds interested. There might still be time to salvage this.

“You certainly don’t _Nott_ look good.”

Never mind. It’s over.

Theo doesn’t laugh at Malfoy’s pun – and why would he? It is far inferior to Harry’s many previous ones – but his lips curl upwards, ever so slightly. For Theodore Nott, that’s as good as a smile with teeth. “Since when are you and Harry friends?” he asks.

Harry blanches at the question and he’s glad that Malfoy does too.

“Potter? We’re not friends!”

Theo turns in his seat to face Malfoy fully, leaning one arm on the bar. An excellent sign! “Then why is he setting up dates for you?”

Malfoy’s eye definitely twitches this time. “It’s a complicated arrangement,” he says slowly. That doesn’t begin to explain the half of it

Thankfully, Theo doesn’t push it further. Infuriatingly he just says, “He’s a complicated bloke.” Which is completely untrue. Maybe Theo just isn’t as intelligent as he–

“You’re telling me!” Malfoy agrees. Rudely. He _knows_ Harry is right behind him. “What possessed you to date him?”

“Stupid, right?” Theo says and chuckles. He never chuckled for Harry. “My father was a Death Eater and he’s a self-righteous _Gryffindor_. It was never going to work.”

Malfoy nods, grinning far too much for Harry’s liking. Harry wants to flick him in the ear just to wipe that crude smile from his–

“Not to mention, he’s a half-blood,” Theo continues.

Malfoy’s grin falls and Harry lowers his hand from where it had been poised by Malfoy’s ear.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Draco, like you’re the champion of muggle rights. It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like?” Malfoy asks, but his voice is cold now, his gaze on Theo clinical. Even at his cruellest moments, Malfoy’s _never_ looked at Harry like that.

Theo is unintimidated. “Now that my father’s gone,” he says unflinching, “I’m left to attend all the seasonal events on behalf of my family. I’m expected to continue our legacy. If I brought my half-blood date, my family’s reputation would be ruined, and I’d never be invited back.”

The recollection of their break-up returns to Harry in full force. They had shouted – well Harry had, Theo had remained annoyingly calm – for hours about a Charity Gala at the Greengrass Estate. Theo had wanted Harry to meet him in his workshop after the event and Harry had finally had enough of sneaking around like a booty call.

“When I was dating Potter,” Theo continues, “I had to attend every event stag. It was such an inconvenience.”

“Yes, I can see how that would be inconvenient for _you_ ,” Malfoy returns coolly, all nervous energy gone. Harry had hoped Malfoy and Theo would find common ground, but this – even with Draco Malfoy as the unlikely mouthpiece of sass – is so much better. Harry would high five him if he weren’t invisible. _Who’s the cool one now?_ he wants to shout at Theo.

“I like Potter, I do, he’s a lot of fun.” Harry resists flicking Theo’s ear at that comment. “I’m not prejudiced, I just have to balance the weight of expectations.”

“From the legacy your Death Eater father passed onto you?” Malfoy retorts, flaring up Harry’s sass-o-meter again.

Theo lets out a low whistle, but he doesn’t appear put off. “Says the Death Eater himself,” he counters. _He likes this_ , Harry remembers. He likes to be challenged. That had worked for Harry at first until he discovered Theo never backs down, never changes his views, rendering the challenge itself pointless. “Can I see it?” he asks.

Harry doesn’t understand the question until Malfoy yanks his left arm back from where it rests on the bar. Theo was always fascinated with the workings of dark magic.

“No,” Malfoy says firmly.

Theo follows Malfoy’s arm with hungry eyes, like a predator. Harry has the irrational urge to throw off his cloak and stand between them, but he opts not to blow his cover. Instead, he pulls his wand out. Just in case.

“Does it still move?”

“No,” Malfoy says flatly, “it’s like a muggle tattoo now.”

The predator’s eyes flash. “Muggle tattoos don’t move? What’s the point? What if you change your mind?”

At this, Malfoy turns away from Theo to face the bar, his anger palpable. A hint of red skin peaks out from the high neck collar of his robes and his lips are so tightly pursed, they appear as one thin line. “You have to make a commitment,” he says quietly to his Firewhisky.

“If you like,” Theo continues, oblivious to these obvious signs, “I could fiddle with the magic, see if I can get it to move again.”

“Why would I want that?”

Theo shrugs, leaning into Malfoy’s side. Harry’s fingers clench around his wand. “Could be cool,” Theo says. He’s still interested, the arsehole. No, he’s _more_ interested, the absolute wanker.

Malfoy is clearly anything but. “I’m fine, thank you,” he says tightly.

“Suit yourself.” Theo leans back and Harry’s wand hand relaxes. “Hey, I rent a workshop space in Hogsmeade. Do you want to see it?”

Harry’s hand tightens once more and he raises his wand, ready to hit Theo with a stinging jinx (just to start). There is no way he is letting Malfoy leave with Theodore Nott. But he’s saved from revealing himself by Malfoy.

“No,” he says firmly. “I do not want to go _fuck_ in your workshop. I do not want you to touch my Dark Mark. In fact, I do not want you anywhere near me right now.”

Theo doesn’t like this. His face screws up, similar to a toddler about to have a tantrum, and he stands up. “Whatever, Draco. You’re no fun,” he says, and (finally) leaves.

Except, just as he gets to the door, Harry casts a quick trip jinx. Theo stumbles for a brief moment before righting himself, but the damage is done. He doesn’t look so cool after all.

With a cursory look around the pub to make sure no one’s watching, Harry pulls off the cloak and sits down by Malfoy.

Malfoy fixes him with a glare. “You and Nott?” he questions drily. “I don’t see it.”

After the Theo Malfoy saw tonight, Harry can understand. He never thought he’d date Theodore Nott either, but…“He was charming at first. He created a spell for me, completely from scratch. It must have taken him weeks.”

“What spell?” Malfoy asks.

“Oh,” Harry’s traitor face heats up at the realisation of what he was about to reveal to Draco Malfoy of all people. “Nothing, it doesn’t matter,” he says, ducking his head so his hair hides the pink flush in his cheeks. “You look like you could use another drink?”

“I’ll need a triple shot of Ogden’s Old to recover from that.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I’ve had much worse,” Harry says, remembering a particularly uncomfortable date with Ron in second year, prior to coming out. It was quickly but awkwardly determined they were better off as friends, but they spent weeks after not talking. He doesn’t share this with Malfoy; he and Ron had only made up when they agreed to never speak of it.

“It was my first date, Potter,” Malfoy says quietly. “It was supposed to mean something.” He kicks Harry’s shin under the table and Harry jerks his head up. “Do me a favour and don’t set me up with another pureblood. They’re all spineless twats.”

“But you’re a pureblood.”

“Exactly.”

Harry hails the bartender. “Six shots of Ogden’s Old please.”


	2. Dating Justin Finch-Fletchley

Harry doesn’t recall returning to his dormroom Friday night. All he remembers is downing shots – too many fucking shots – with Malfoy (Yes _that_ Draco Malfoy, supposed archrival???) and then waking up to Ron’s face hovering over him – so close he can actually see every individual freckle on his best friend’s face without glasses.

“What the fuck?” he yells, and then groans. His head aches, his chest aches, his mouth burns. Ogden’s Old is _nasty_.

“You wore your binder to bed,” Ron says – just in case the suffocating pain didn’t give it away – and shoves a glass of water in Harry’s hand. “Harry, you know you’re not–”

“Yes, I _know_ , Ron.” Harry skulls the water and places the glass on his bedside table, searching next for his glasses. “Don’t tell Hermione.”

Ron does the pity face, distinctly recognisable even in Harry’s blurred vision; his eyes get all crinkly, his mouth small. “But she can do the recovery charms a–”

“Don’t tell Hermione,” Harry repeats. He can’t feel any frames on the bedside table so he runs his hands over his bedsheets, under his pillow and–

Ron hands them over, recently repaired if the hum of residual magic is anything to go by. “Sure,” he says but Harry knows he’s lying. They’re always talking about him.

Ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, Harry rolls out of bed, jams on his glasses with one hand and makes his way to the bathroom with squinting eyes. It’s too bloody bright; what time is it?

“Do you need h–”

Harry shuts the door, falling back against it. He’s without his wand but he concentrates on a spell to clear his head all the same. For a moment, the headache disappears and his head has never felt lighter. Then, just as quickly, the throbbing starts up again. He grimaces through it, giving up on the spell, and sets to work dislodging the binder from his bruised skin.

* * *

By Sunday, Harry’s still recovering but, unlike the day before, he at least manages to make it down to the Great Hall for breakfast. He piles his plate high with sausages and eggs and potatoes (roasted) and concentrates on making his way through them while Hermione not-so-discreetly casts healing spells on him and lectures him about binder safety. Ron, the loose-lipped traitor, sits there looking sheepish.

When she’s finished, admittedly Harry’s chest does feel a _little_ better, but he doesn’t say anything, lest he give her the satisfaction of being right. He continues eating breakfast, only stopping when the food ceases to reappear.

“ _Harry_ ,” Ron says as he stands up. “Ginny and I are heading down to the Quidditch pitch today to mess–”

“Great. Have fun,” Harry interjects before Ron finishes the pity invite. They’ll obviously have a better time without him.

Ron, as expected, looks to Hermione.

“ _Harry_ ,” she says, as well. “I was thinking of checking out this new book in the–”

“Great. Don’t let me stop you.”

“ _Harry_ ,” Hermione starts again in the tip-toe voice.

“I’m fine,” Harry says for what must be the thousandth time. “Why don’t you believe me when I tell you I’m fine?”

“We believe you, mate,” Ron lies (again); his ears are pink. “See you later.”

They shuffle off, finally, leaving Harry at the rapidly emptying Gryffindor table. He lays his head down on crossed arms and waits for the room to clear. There’s something about the Great Hall when it’s empty. The silence. The vast space. A shame it’s so often crowded, especially with the additional eighth years squeezed in.

It’s a Sunday so the masses move leisurely, nowhere to be. Harry wishes he could hurry them along. There’s a convenient spell for just that but a Professor or older student would surely detect it and trace it back to the source.

At the next table over, a group of Hufflepuffs pull out a Chess board. Harry groans internally; he’ll never have silence now. He stands to leave, shooting one last glare at the group. It’s then he takes note of one particular red-headed Hufflepuff student instructing his chess pieces for battle and he changes direction.

* * *

“Finch-Fletchley,” Harry announces on Monday, following Malfoy into his dorm. He’d misjudged the time and had been stuck waiting by the door for Malfoy to return from his afternoon classes. A surprisingly chatty Glanmore Peakes had been happy for the company, at least.

“What is that? A disease?”

“No, a guy. Justin Finch-Fletchley. He’s a Hufflepuff in our year.”

Malfoy’s falls into one of the lounge chairs, depositing a pristine school satchel at his feet. “Not the one who let himself get petrified in second year?”

Harry takes the seat opposite. “The very same.”

“You dated him?” Malfoy asks coolly. He busies himself setting up teacups and levitating his teapot over, but there’s a buzz of energy about him, betraying his interest.

“Briefly.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “So, you just slept with him.”

“Three or four times,” Harry admits. “He wasn’t bad.” He wasn’t that good either, come to think of it. He was frustratingly vanilla. That is, except for–

“Then why’d you stop?” Malfoy asks. His eyes narrow, turning the question into an accusation. “What’s wrong with him?”

Harry considers lying – he’s never told anyone else the truth about Justin – but it’s only Malfoy so he doesn’t bother. “He only wanted me for his Parseltongue kink.”

Malfoy makes a choking noise and sets down his teacup. “His _what_?”

Harry laughs, remembering. The last time they’d hooked up, he’d been forced to launch into a monologue about muggle taxes just to keep the Parseltongue coming…and consequently Justin Finch-Fletchley coming. “I’ll teach you a couple of phrases. You could have him in your bed on the first date.”

“That won’t be necessary, Potter.” Malfoy’s face is paler than usual – which is no mean feat with such translucent skin.

Harry switches into Parseltongue easily. _“Are you sure?”_ he asks. _“You’d have Justin in the palm of your hand.”_

Malfoy closes his eyes, his knuckles clench. “I said that won’t be necessary, Potter.”

Harry grins at Malfoy’s discomfort. “Don’t tell me you have a kink for it too?”

Quite the opposite actually,” Malfoy says icily, his right hand crossing his body to cradle his left forearm. “That’s how _he_ controlled _it_.” 

Harry’s grin drops instantly, a sick sensation settling in his stomach. “Fuck, sorry.” He sips his tea quietly and averts his eyes, as Malfoy takes deep shuddering breaths.

Outside with the low sun, the Forbidden Forest looks particularly green today. Harry would’ve enjoyed a dorm like this. The peace. The solitary. The king-sized bed. Perhaps not so much green, but he’d get used to it eventually. 

When Malfoy’s breathing quietens, Harry turns back just in time to see Malfoy reopen his eyes. “Sor–” Harry tries again but Malfoy cuts him off.

“Why did you choose Finch-Fletchley for me?”

Harry pushes away the guilt in his gut and shrugs. “He’s a muggle-born and he’s available Sunday.”

“That’s _it?”_

“You said no purebloods so I found you the opposite. You didn’t give me anything else to go on.”

“Yes, but you _know_ me, Potter,” Malfoy drawls. Does he? “Surely you’re not going to set me up with someone who I won’t be able to stand.”

Harry tilts his head considering the pair. They’re both particularly pompous so they have that going for them. Justin’s also quite well-off financially, especially with the beneficial muggle currency rate. They both have those pointless upper crust manners: which fork to use during courses, how to correctly place a napkin, etc.

“Potter,” Malfoy snaps, ruining a perfectly good daydream of Malfoy and Justin competing to place their napkins in the most elegant manner. “Are you taking this seriously?”

Harry nods his head dutifully. “I am taking my archrival dating my ex-boyfriends _very seriously_.”

“Good,” Malfoy says missing (or ignoring) the sarcasm, “because I’ll have you know this is important to me. Where’s the date?”

Harry raises his teacup. “Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop.”

“No,” Malfoy says immediately. He does not raise his teacup.

Harry hasn’t visited the Tea Shop for a while, sure, and there was a time when he hated it completely, if only because it reminded him of all the femininity that had been thrust upon him in childhood. But he’s long since grown secure enough in his own identity to appreciate all things masculine, feminine and in between. And surely Malfoy, who has a whole four years on Harry in regards to transitioning, can’t still be that hung-up on being seen in a Tea Shop just because it happens to be pink.

“What’s wrong with Madam Puddifoot’s?” Harry asks.

“Nothing,” Malfoy obviously lies, avoiding Harry’s eyes, and instead staring into his tea. “I simply do not wish to host a date there.”

“Too many doilies?”

That, at least, pulls a subtle smirk from the corner of Malfoy’s mouth. “Not enough.”

Harry drains the last of his cup and sets it down. “Well, too bad, it’s already organised. You and Justin, High Tea, 4pm Sunday.”

“High Tea,” Malfoy repeats vacantly.

“It’s where they serve cute little sandwiches and scones with–”

Malfoy scowls. “I know what High Tea is.”

“Do you want the date or not? We could call off this whole thing right now…” Harry trails off deliberately, not quite able to hide the small impending-victory smile from his face.

“I want the date,” Malfoy says to his teacup, and then to Harry: “I hate you.”

Harry stands up, grinning. There’s something about sparring with Malfoy that makes him a little too happy. “I hate you more.”

* * *

Harry avoids Hermione and Ron’s synced stares as he squeezes in on the bench between them. He’d like to attend one Potions class without comment, and he doesn’t think that’s all too much to ask for.

Professor Slughorn heads over to their table immediately, peering down at Harry with unbearable fondness. “How are you feeling, m’boy?”

“What?”

Professor Slughorn leans in conspiratorially. “Your friends said you’ve been _unwell_.”

Ron and Hermione’s eyes bore into Harry on both sides, feeding off each other like magnets. “Yeah, I’m feeling a bit better today,” he lies.

Down in the front row, Malfoy whips his head around and shoots Harry an insufferable smirk. Harry ignores it.

“Great to hear!” Professor Slughorn clasps his hands together. “I’ve missed my Potions prodigy.” He turns and addresses the class as he walks back to the front: “Today, we’re brewing Veritaserum.”

While the majority of the class ‘oooh’s, Hermione’s hand shoots into the air, narrowly missing Harry’s ear.

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“The use of Veritaserum is strictly controlled by the Ministry of Magic. It’s illegal to use without a majority vote in the Wizengamot.”

“Precisely, Miss Granger,” Professor Slughorn says, his eyes alight, clearly glad for the question. “Illegal to _use,_ but not illegal to brew.” He waves his wand and the recipe appears on the blackboard. “Besides, it requires incredibly advanced Potion-making skills and needs to be left to mature for a full lunar cycle post brewing. I doubt we will see a potion today that could make anyone other than a small child reveal their secrets.” He laughs, winks at Harry and plonks himself down behind his desk at the front of the room, looking especially pleased with himself.

“This is not in the curriculum,” hisses Hermione on Harry’s left.

“It’s eighth year. There is no curriculum,” Ron whispers back on Harry’s right.

Hermione huffs. “There should be!”

The obligatory rush to the supply cupboard begins. Harry sits back while Hermione and Ron join the fight for the best ingredients. He lets his eyes fall on Malfoy’s platinum head in the front. He’s seated with Parkinson and Zabini, all their ingredients already laid out ahead of them. Except only Malfoy is working while the other two chat, presumably gossiping about Harry’s impressive sexual prowess. Parkinson had seemed impressed at the time.

Malfoy works quickly and methodically, chopping up ingredients with far too much consistency for human hands. Harry suspects a steady-of-hand spell. He knows the incantation and motion so he concentrates, turning the focus to his own hands on the desk in front of him. He’s never liked his hands. Aunt Petunia would always scold him for biting the nails down to the skin, which only made him more determined to continue the habit. He shakes the thought, refocusing on the spell and letting his eyes glaze over.

“Here, chop this,” Hermione says, breaking the trance and shoving an Adder’s Fork in front of Harry.

He picks up a knife from the counter and slices twice. He doesn’t even need to measure the pieces to know the spell hasn’t worked. He slices the rest of the snake tongue and pushes it back to Hermione. Like clockwork, Ron replaces it with another ingredient.

As he works, Harry keeps glancing over to the front row and that sleek blond hair. Halfway through the lesson, when the classroom has warmed from bubbling cauldrons and steam, Malfoy pushes up the sleeves of his white school shirt. There’s a flash of black ink before the left sleeve settles further down on his forearm. Malfoy’s Dark Mark. Controlled by Voldemort’s Parseltongue. The inside of Harry’s mouth feels foul at the memory, his fear of similarities with the dark wizard reignited. He tries not to let it take hold, but the terrible thought from his childhood rears its ugly head uninvited: _What if I’m only trans because of Voldemort? Because of the part of him that grew inside of me._ Harry shakes his head, willing the question away. He already knows the answer, he’s already sure of his identity, no matter what his traitorous impulsive mind would have him believe in his darkest moments. He concentrates on Dumbledore’s words from his second year, the ones that usually calm him: _It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities._ Except Harry’s not so certain he’s been making the right choices lately either.

Harry continues to chop, slice, and crush what Hermione and Ron push in front of him on autopilot, but helps no further. Hermione handles the majority of the cauldron work with Ron reading out the method and handing over each ingredient as it is required. Surprisingly, they work well together with no disagreements. Harry’s missed so much lately it’s like he hardly knows his own best friends anymore.

Near the end of the class, Slughorn makes his rounds. He visits their table and peers into the cauldron at the light grey mixture Hermione continues to gently stir. He ignores her and Ron, instead smiling down at Harry. “M’boy, you’ve almost got it.”

Harry plasters on his fakest smile in return. “Just doing my best, sir.”

Slughorn beams and moves to the next table. Harry can feel the anger radiating from Hermione, so he avoids her eye, scanning the classroom, and lingering only for a second on blonde hair before moving on. He notices Theodore Nott in a corner by himself, weaving his wand around as he slices ingredients, stirs, and adjusts his cauldron’s heat all at once. Working alone, he’s a little slower than the rest of the class, but no less capable. Despite the horrible date last week, Harry knows there are redeemable qualities in Theo, especially when he’s far from the influence of his family. Perhaps the good in him is too deeply buried.

The lesson ends, and despite Malfoy’s potion being objectively the clearest and most resembling of Veritaserum, it’s Harry who receives Slughorn’s clap on the back at the only slightly murky potion Hermione and Ron have brewed. It’s also Harry who notices, when all eyes are on him, that Malfoy slips a vial into the pocket of his robe.

Students pile eagerly out of the classroom, Malfoy’s gang right at the front. Harry ignores the questions from his friends and follows them into the corridor. “Malfoy, wait,” he calls out and the silver trio all turn to face him. Zabini fixes Harry with a half-annoyed/half-questioning glare and Parkinson looks resolutely past Harry’s head, not meeting his eyes.

Harry gestures to Malfoy’s pocket. “What are you going to do with that?”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “With what, Potter?”

“You know what.”

Parkinson’s eyes drift to Harry’s face and Harry catches her gaze before they both discreetly look away. Too late, Malfoy notices and his mouth falls into a hard line.

“Without casting Legilimency, I cannot fathom what happens in the recesses of your mind, Potter, so if you are quite finishing with your little pointing fingers charade, I’d like to head to lunch.”

Not waiting for Harry’s response, Malfoy turns, striding down the corridor. After a beat, his friends follow, Zabini shooting Harry a half-threatening/half-confused glance and Parkinson smiling weakly over her shoulder.

* * *

Harry skips his afternoon classes and practices levitating his wand in a small alcove by Malfoy’s dorm. He waits until distinctive footsteps meet his ears at the end of the school day, lets the wand fall into his hand and and jumps up to follow Malfoy to his door. This time, Malfoy doesn’t seem surprised. He lets Harry in and immediately summons his teapot, shoving a cup in Harry’s hands before he has time to sit.

Harry stares into the tea suspiciously. “You slipped Veritaserum into this, didn’t you?”

Malfoy sinks into a chair, smirking. “I’m appalled that you think I’d waste a drop on you.”

“That’s not a no.”

Malfoy pulls the vial from his pocket and raises it for inspection. “It’s still full. I’m allowing it to strengthen over the lunar cycle.”

Comforted, Harry takes a sip of his tea. It’s different today, a sweeter blend. He drops into the now familiar chair across from Malfoy. “What are you going to do with it?”

“That’s for me to know and you to mind your own business, Potter.”

“I could tell Slughorn.”

Malfoy shifts in his chair. “But we both know you won’t. Is that all?”

He’s right of course. Harry’s too curious to tell Slughorn. A long game is in order. Harry takes a leisurely sip of tea, considering his options. “Good,” he finally says. “Questions are good.”

Malfoy’s barely visible platinum eyebrows tighten. “Excuse me?”

“Yes,” Harry says, “seeking clarification is excellent but be careful with your tone.”

“Potter, if you don’t explain what you’re doing right now” – Malfoy raises his wand – “I’m spelling you from my dorm.”

Harry laughs. Malfoy’s dramatics are incredibly entertaining these days. “Like you could.”

“I absolutely could.”

“Go on, then. Spell me out.”

They stare back at each other, eyes unblinking, poses unflinching, for a silent moment until Malfoy lowers his wand, his lips pursed. “Explain what you’re doing here.”

Harry grins at his victory. “Knew it!” He takes off his glasses and cleans them slowly with his shirt just to let Malfoy squirm. “I’m teaching you” – he pauses to put his glasses back on – “how to talk.”

Malfoy glares at Harry like he’s offered to potty train him. “I _know_ how to talk.”

“Could’ve fooled me after your date with Theo.”

Malfoy stands up, a pink flush growing on his cheeks. “I think you’ll find that was entirely Nott’s fault.” He turns and strides to the window. “He’s a horrendous match and you should never have set me up with him.”

“If you know what you’re doing, chatting up any date is easy.”

Malfoy scoffs over his shoulder. “And you would know.”

Harry takes one last gulp of his tea. “Yeah.” He stands up, meaning to follow Malfoy, but then he has a better idea; one of his more reckless ideas that often force him to charm his way out of trouble.

“You’re so full of it, Potter.”

“Hey now,” Harry says, crossing the room, “insults will only get you so far with a date.” He approaches the king-sized bed and quietly climbs up (recklessly). In his defence, it’s a monster of a bed in the best possible way and he’s been eager to try it out since he first laid eyes on it. 

Malfoy huffs, but he hasn’t yet noticed Harry’s offence. “You’re not my date.”

“But I’m going to be your guinea pig.”

Harry leans back into the fluffy (green) pillows of Malfoy’s bed. It’s enviously comfortable and wasted on a virgin. The sex that could be had on these silk sheets…Alas, even if Harry finds him the perfect partner, he can’t imagine Malfoy bringing them back here. He’s far too prudish and far too private. If Harry owned a bed like this, he’d be much more generous with it.

Malfoy turns around, finally noticing where Harry has propped himself. He narrows his eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because if I have to sit through another date of you floundering to string two words together, I will Accio my own eyeballs from their sockets.”

“Get off my bed, Potter.”

Harry smirks. “Is this how you treat your date?”

“Get off my bed, Potter.”

Rather than obey (ha!), Harry rolls over to his side, propping his head up with a cocked elbow. “Hi,” he says in a posh voice (presumably Malfoy’s type), “I’m James, nice to meet you. Harry’s told me ever so much.”

“I’m sure he has,” Malfoy says drily. Despite Harry’s impressive performance, he looks thoroughly unimpressed.

Harry shakes his head. “No, no! That’s a conversation ender. You accept what your date is giving you and then add to it. For example, you might say: _Hi I’m Malfoy, nice to meet you as well. I don’t suppose Harry mentioned how much I enjoy being unnecessarily antagonistic?”_

Malfoy scoffs. “You can talk, Potter.”

“James,” Harry corrects, enjoying the way it makes Malfoy scowl. “And yes, Harry did mention that. Thankfully I have an older brother so I’m used to deflecting jibes that hide deeper insecurities. Do you have any siblings?” Harry drops out of his posh voice. “Notice how I’m keeping the conversation going by adding a relevant question each time?”

Despite Harry’s incredible acting skills and teaching chops, Malfoy does not play along. “You know full well I don’t have any siblings. Neither do you.”

Harry drops his elbow and falls onto his back. “Malfoy, do you _want_ to fuck up all your dates?”

“No,” Malfoy says petulantly, but after a beat, he adds: “Do you always wear your school uniform even when you don’t attend class?”

“Yes,” Harry says, gritting his teeth through his irritation since Malfoy is finally playing along, “I happen to like my uniform. Do you really think antagonising me is going to help you find a date?”

“It seems to be working quite well for me actually.” The bed dips and Harry looks over to see Malfoy perching himself on the edge. “Why James?”

“It’s the name my parents gave me,” Harry answers in character, skilfully embodying the acting role of James: a posh, cis dude with striking looks and great hair (not dissimilar to Harry’s). “Why did you choose Draco?”

Malfoy clearly does not care for the Stanislavski method of acting. “You know what I mean,” he says.

Harry relents and drops character. “It’s my dad’s name.”

Malfoy scrunches up his nose. “Sorry, Mr Potter, I’m not into seniors.”

“Watch it,” Harry counters, but he can’t help a traitorous laugh that escapes from his mouth at Malfoy’s tease. “Now will you take this seriously?”

“Finish every answer with a question,” Malfoy drawls. “Pedestrian but I guess I understand your reasoning.”

“Not just that. Listen and make sure your question is relevant. If your date is telling a story, ask a question about something specific here or there to show you’re interested.”

Malfoy leans back against the foot of the bed. “What if I’m _not_ interested?”

“You can still be polite.”

“Are you sure that’s the best approach? I wouldn’t want to give the wrong signal. These are _your_ exes after all.”

Harry twists his body on the bed so he can see Malfoy’s face properly without getting up. “What does that mean?”

Malfoy runs his eyes over Harry’s sprawled body pointedly. “They’re all used to someone…freer in the bedroom.”

“Are you saying I’m easy?” Harry sits up. “I am not easy. I am very particular about who I sleep with.”

“You slept with Theodore Nott.”

Harry feels hot at the back of his neck. Malfoy has no clue about Theodore Nott. Nor does he have the foggiest about Harry Potter.

“I told you, he was charming.”

Malfoy laughs and it rings cool and cruel in Harry’s ears. “Is that all it takes to get into the great Harry Potter’s pants? A brief display of charm?”

“Well, you’ll never find out, Malfoy,” Harry retorts, the heat from his neck spreading to his face, “because you have about as much charm as a toad. A gross, slimy one! With spots!”

“What a shame,” Malfoy says drily. “A tragedy. I’m truly devastated.”

“Fine, lesson over.” Harry climbs off the bed – it really is vast – and stands up. “Good luck embarrassing yourself on your date. You won’t be getting any help from me.”

“Don’t need it,” Malfoy says, waving a hand dismissively.

“We’ll find out.”

“I guess we will.”

“Fine,” Harry says, stomping to the door – this is becoming a familiar pattern. “Bye.” And then for good measure, he adds over his shoulder: “And I’ll find out what you’re doing with that Veritaserum!”

* * *

Harry considers ditching Malfoy’s date and letting the ungrateful bastard fend for himself. In fact, he’s decided on it Sunday morning, but then lunch rolls around, and his brain is ticking over again, curious to hear Justin’s assessment of him, and he knows he must go. Of course, that still doesn’t mean he has to help Malfoy.

When he arrives at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, Malfoy is yet to enter, pacing outside the door despite the chilling wind. He looks up at Harry’s footsteps.

“You came.”

Harry hadn’t meant for Malfoy to see him. He’d intended to don his cloak before entering and lurk in the corner. He curses himself for being caught. “Not for you. For Justin.”

“Are you planning on practising your _dirty_ Parseltongue with him again?”

“No.” Perhaps telling Malfoy about that was a mistake after all.

“Then leave this one to me. I’ll tell you what he says about you after. Go and do whatever it is you do to relax.”

Harry crosses his arms. “I do not need to relax,” he says through gritted teeth. Malfoy is _so_ infuriating.

“Yes,” Malfoy says smirking – the absolute bastard – “because relaxed people make a habit of losing their temper and storming off.”

Harry is tempted for a repeat performance of just that but not enough to give Malfoy the satisfaction. “I’m coming,” he insists.

Malfoy waves his hand in a way that clearly says ‘Whatever’ and turns to enter Madam Puddifoot’s. Harry swiftly pulls on his Invisibility Cloak and follows, careful to slide in through the door behind Malfoy without jostling it. The hostess is an older witch with slick black hair wrapped in three long plaits. She’s wearing a body length white apron with doily-inspired edges. She looks up as the door jingles.

“Draco, dear, what are–”

“I have a 4pm High Tea booking,” Malfoy says, cutting her off. There’s something off about his voice: it doesn’t have its usual drawl. “It’s likely under Potter.”

The woman gasps. “You’re dating Harry Potter?”

“No, Brianne, nothing like that I assure you,” Malfoy says, glancing over his shoulder and looking through Harry. “I haven’t completely lost my mind.”

Brianne smiles sly and cheeky, reminding Harry of Tonks. “But he booked the couples High Tea in the loveseat!”

“I thought as much. He’s a ridiculous sap with no grasp of subtlety.” This time when Malfoy looks over his shoulder with murderous eyes, it’s as if he’s staring right at Harry, Invisibility Cloak be damned. “It’s not him I’m meeting, however. It’s a Hufflepuff by the name of Justin Finch-Fletchley. Red hair and freckles, but a darker complexion than the Weasley variations.”

“Isn’t this exciting!” Brianne wiggles her eyebrows. “I’ll keep an eye out for your beau and take care of everything, don’t worry about a thing!”

Without any guidance from Brianne or the other staff, Malfoy continues on through the tea shop with Harry struggling to keep up while avoiding the tightly packed tables of couples.

“You know her?” Harry whispers as he closes the space.

“I’m a regular,” Malfoy mutters, barely moving his lips.

“Then what was all that crap about not wanting to come here?”

Malfoy stops at a red heart-shaped loveseat in the back corner. Pink curtains sit high on both sides, ready to be pulled down for privacy. “Nothing to worry your precious little head about, Potter,” he says, sliding onto the seat.

“My head is _not_ little.”

Harry reluctantly squeezes in next to Malfoy – it’s that or stand between tightly packed tables and risk being run into by guests and staff on a regular basis.

Justin, of course, arrives perfectly on time, escorted to the loveseat by Brianne, who shoots Malfoy a thumbs up behind his head. He’s wearing stylish purple robes that make his red coiled hair stick out more than usual. His freckled chestnut skin, as always, has the tell-tale shine of a recent moisturising treatment.

“Good Evening Finch-Fletchley.”

His tone is smooth but the hyphenated name doesn’t quite flow off Malfoy’s tongue. Not like Potter. (For example.)

Justin sits down, squeezing Malfoy even tighter against Harry’s side. “It’s only 4pm.”

Harry can’t imagine the correction doing anything other than irritate Malfoy, but he doesn’t show it, only smiling politely. “My mistake.”

Justin eyes Malfoy up with no attempt at being discreet. “Your robes are exquisite.”

“Thank you kindly, as are yours.”

Justin shrugs but too quickly as if he expected the response. “From the latest Cecelia Lockhart collection. That woman knows wizard fashion.”

Malfoy nods. “Undoubtably,” he says. A conversation ender. Did they not just go over this earlier in the week? Harry elbows him in the ribs, and he quickly adds: “Have you enjoyed a charming weekend thus far?”

Too late, Harry remembers his vow not to help Malfoy. _Fuck it_ , he thinks. He’s still mad but he’s not going to sit here and witness torturous silence again. It’s too much second-hand embarrassment to bear.

“Oh, it’s been dreadful. Mother wrote a letter to advise we’re cancelling the annual Gala at our estate. It’s usually the event of the season! Everyone talks about it for months afterwards.”

“What caused the cancellation?” Malfoy asks, and he almost sounds interested. Perhaps he’s taken Harry’s training on board after all.

“If you must know, my parents are currently being _unjustly_ investigated for tax fraud and we have to limit our spending to essential items only. Can you believe we’re only going on two vacations this year? Not only that, I’m only allowed to add one more wand to my collection.”

This time, Malfoy nudges Harry in the ribs – Harry manages to hold back an audible reaction – before responding: “You have a wand collection?” His voice is polite, but obviously bored.

Harry leans into Malfoy’s ear. “Give him a chance,” he whispers. He’s really not sure what’s going wrong. Justin talks exactly like Malfoy, and Malfoy’s full of himself. So surely, Malfoy would be attracted to him. They’re like two filthy-rich peas in a luxurious pod.

“I believe any self-respecting wizard should have one,” Justin continues. “I use a different wand for each class, one for overnight, one for events, one for the muggle world, and one for dates of course.” As if by example, he carefully places a long English oak wand on the table.

Malfoy’s eyes drop to it and his lip curls. “I’m afraid I’ve come ill prepared for this date with my one and only wand.”

“Don’t be silly, I’ll buy you another.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Malfoy doesn’t quite use his ice voice but it’s close enough that even Harry pulls back, or at least as much as he can on the ridiculous loveseat.

Brianne returns holding a teapot and teacups, and levitating one of those fancy tiered High Tea stands with cute little scones. Harry hasn’t taken a date out for High Tea in a while. He must rectify that soon. The tiered platter lands gently on the table and Brianne places a teacup and saucer in front of Justin and Malfoy. She pours Justin’s tea first, stepping up close to his side of the table, and then leaning across to pour Malfoy’s.

“No, no,” Justin says, shaking his head, “you should never lean over a guest, it’s impolite.”

Brianne freezes in place at the comment and Malfoy quickly takes the teapot from her hands, finishing pouring his own tea. “It’s fine really, thank you,” he says and then when she backs away, Harry swears he even sees Malfoy mouth ‘sorry’ to her. Perhaps Justin and Malfoy aren’t as alike as Harry assumed.

“There’s no need to thank the help, especially when the service is below standard.”

Malfoy turns to Justin so Harry can’t see his face but he can imagine just the expression: hard lips and ice-cold eyes. “There’s no need to be rude to the staff here either.”

Justin stares back, something like curiosity playing behind his eyes. “Did I strike a nerve?”

“No,” Malfoy says, obviously lying. “Why don’t you tell me about your wand collection?”

The distraction works easily on Justin, his attention refocused to himself instantly. “There’s nothing to tell, really. The range is quite varied, the only thing that’s consistent amongst them all is the size.” His hand grips the oak wand on the table suggestively. “Eighteen inches.”

“Right,” Malfoy drawls without emotion. It’s a conversation ender but Harry doesn’t blame him. Justin’s innuendo is ludicrous, especially when it’s not even factual. Sure, Harry didn’t have a measuring tape handy when they’d hooked up but he certainly would have noticed if Justin Finch Fletchley had an EIGHTEEN INCH cock. That’s one and a half feet. Stack up four of those cocks and put them in a trench-coat and they’d be taller than Harry, for fuck’s sake.

“So,” Mr Eighteen-Inch-Cock says, “tell me about Harry.”

Harry instinctively leans in closer and Malfoy nudges him back with a seamless shrug of his shoulder.

“You’re friends?” Mr Eighteen– okay, _Justin_ , prompts. Why does everyone think that?

“No.”

“I was so surprised when he set me up with you. I thought it might be a ruse to have his way with me again. I am well sought after.”

Harry bites down on the edge of the Invisibility Cloak to muffle his laughter. Justin was perfectly fine when they’d hooked up, _fine_ being the operative word. In fact, Harry hadn’t thought of Justin at all until Malfoy’s proposition. He stops laughing, suddenly feeling guilty.

“Does Harry, does he” – Justin lowers his lashes – “still speak Parseltongue?”

Something in Malfoy’s posture changes. Harry really should not have mentioned the Parseltongue thing. “Why do you ask?” he asks, a little too innocently.

“It’s been a while, I thought perhaps he’d grown out of it.”

“Why would he grow out of it?”

“Oh no, I’m not sure,” Justin backtracks, his usual air of arrogance disapparating. “Just enquiring to be polite.”

They both reach for their teacups at the same time, taking torturous silent sips. Harry eyes the untouched scones; would Justin notice if one of them suddenly disappeared beneath Harry’s cloak? He’s considering the risk, inching closer, when Malfoy places his teacup down with an uncouth clank on its saucer. Justin flinches.

“Yes, he does still speak Parseltongue,” Malfoy says out of nowhere. “Although I can never be sure exactly what he’s saying, especially when he’s whispering in my ear.”

Justin’s eyes grow wide, his pupils dilating inhumanly fast. Harry flicks Malfoy in said ear but he barely reacts, continuing on with his bizarre charade.

“Sometimes he simply slips into it. I don’t know if he knows he’s even doing it. As if he’s lost in the moment, perhaps?”

“That’s not how it works,” Harry whispers in Malfoy’s ear but Justin is already nodding in agreement, biting his lower lip.

“Then there are those times he says my name in his Parseltongue accent. The way his tongues slithers over _Draco_.” – He hisses (no, really: _hisses)_ his own name – “It’s indecent.”

Justin’s entire face is red as he jumps from the loveseat. “Excuse me one moment,” he says, already running through the tea shop to the bathrooms, his eighteen-inch wand grasped in his hand.

“What was _that_?”

Malfoy leans back in the seat, spreading his legs into the extra space left by Justin’s absence. He’s smirking. “I’m simply riling him up. Did you see his face? I thought he might cream his pants.”

Although Harry agrees and is tempted to make a joke about scone toppings of the same name, he holds himself back. He’s still mad and Malfoy is ruining the date. “You’re supposed to be charming him,” he says instead. “Not teasing him.”

“He asked about you, the selfish weasel. He’s thinking about having sex with _you_ on a date with _me_.”

“I’m not the one who just gave him a boner in the middle of a tea shop!”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “If he knew you were here watching, I bet he would have exploded on the spot.”

“Shut up.”

Justin returns and Malfoy’s legs retreat squeezing back against Harry. “My sincere apologies,” he says, as he slides into the loveseat, sandwiching Malfoy. “Just had to freshen up. You were saying?”

“Oh no, nothing. I’m quite finished.” Harry just catches the curl of Malfoy’s lips before he turns to Justin. “How are you enjoying your tea?”

Justin peers down at his third cup of tea and screws up his nose. “It’s rather dry, wouldn’t you think?”

“The tea is _dry_ ,” Malfoy says drily.

“Yes, we really should complain.” Justin raises his arm and to Harry’s absolute horror, he clicks his fingers. Even though he’s invisible, Harry still sinks into the seat as Brianne returns.

“This tea is so dry,” Justin tells her, “it is giving me a headache. Kindly remove it from our table at once and of course I expect the cost to be struck from our bill.”

Brianne blinks back at Justin and her eyes dart to Malfoy.

“That’s quite alright, I’ll take care of the cost,” Malfoy says with a pained smile. His leg presses even tighter against Harry’s, as if trying to distance himself from Justin. 

“No, Malfoy, you can’t pay for it either. It’s the principle of the thing.”

“And yet,” Malfoy says, “we have already drunk most of the tea.”

“The _substandard_ tea.”

Malfoy raises his teacup, nodding at Brianne. “This is excellent tea,” he says loudly.

Justin smiles at Malfoy. “Perhaps to your untrained palette, but I can assure you, you deserve much better. At my estate we have an in-house tea lady–”

“This is excellent tea,” Malfoy repeats. “Perhaps it is your palette that is untrained, so used to the basic comforts of your estate, that it has no aptitude for innovation.”

Justin smile twitches but he holds it in place. “Either way I am not happy with it.” He turns back to Brianne. “Have it removed at once.”

Before Brianne can move, Malfoy squeezes from the loveseat – crushing Harry against the back cushion in the process – and stands up. “Of course, sir,” he says and picks up the teapot from the table.

Justin shakes his head. “No, Malfoy, don’t bother yourself. Let the staff do it.”

Malfoy stands beside Brianne – who looks like she’d rather be literally anywhere else – and stares down at Justin. “I _am_ ‘the staff’. I work here part-time and if that means I am below your status and you do not wish to spend time with me, then I couldn’t be more thrilled. Spending a date with you is akin to boiling my fingers in acid.”

Justin gasps at the slight. Harry bites down on his cloak again.

“And for the record,” Malfoy continues, “tea can be bitter but it cannot be dry. You're thinking of wine. And this” – he holds up the teapot – “is excellent tea.” With that, Malfoy strides off into the tea shop’s backroom, dragging a speechless Brianne with him.

While Justin sits frozen, his face plastered with shock and horror at the rejection, Harry takes the opportunity to sneak three scones under his cloak. He’s already prepaid for the High Tea anyway – not that he had a chance to share that during the argument (whoops!) – so there’s no point in wasting them. Then, he quietly follows Malfoy.

Madam Puddifoot’s kitchen is larger than Harry expects with a maze of corridors framed with shelves of teacups and pots stacked up to an impossibly high ceiling. Harry walks through, peering down each corridor until he spots Malfoy at the end of the fifth. He’s laughing with Brianne, throwing his head back so much that one loose strand escapes from his slicked back hair. As Harry approaches, his instinct is to reach for it but he stops himself at the last second. This is Malfoy, he reminds himself. No matter what deal they may currently have, they’re still archrivals.

Malfoy stops laughing and turns to Potter’s position with a knowing smirk. “Brianne,” he says, “meet Harry Potter.”

Brianne stares down the corridor in confusion until Harry whips off the Invisibility Cloak. “Hi,” he says quickly, then turns to Malfoy. “How did you know I was here?”

“You might consider a silencing charm, or at the very least learn to tread softer than an elephant.”

Harry shoves the cloak hastily into his pocket. Whatever Malfoy thinks, he’s had no issue sneaking around before. “You should have told me you worked here.”

“Why? So you could make a joke about it? No thank you, Potter.”

“I wouldn’t have made a joke.”

Malfoy stares at Harry.

“Okay I would have,” Harry admits. It’s completely out of character for Malfoy – of course there’s a joke in there somewhere! “But it’s cool.”

“At long last, Harry Potter’s approval,” Malfoy exclaims with zero sincerity. “It’s a dream come true.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Sorry about Justin. In my defence, I never actually dated him.”

“Lucky you. I wish I could say the same. What a prat! Muggleborn or not, he acts like a pureblood. No more upper crust society, Potter, please treat me to someone who values more than his wand collection. I have no qualms if they’re rich as long as they’re not _rich_ rich. I simply cannot cope with any more snobs.”

“Noted,” Harry says, doing his best to supress a laugh, but his lips curve into the beginning of a smile anyway.

“What?” Malfoy snaps.

“Well, it’s just…aren’t you a bit of a snob?”

“I am not.” Malfoy brings a hand to his chest. “How dare you, Potter! I am working class now – I receive minimum wage.”

Brianne leans back into the conversation. “You receive more than minimum wage, Draco, don’t be dramatic.”

Harry grins at her.

“I receive _slightly_ more than minimum wage,” Malfoy corrects.

“Then I’ll concede you’re _slightly_ less snobbish than in the past.”

“Very observant of you, Potter.” Malfoy turns to Brianne. “See you Thursday.”

Then, without so much as a goodbye (or thank-you for that matter) to Harry – his personal Chris Harrison – he slips out the kitchen’s backdoor. Harry waves at Brianne and quickly follows, searching for Malfoy in the street. It takes some time to catch up to Malfoy’s quick strides. With great effort, Harry matches the pace and falls into step beside him.

Malfoy eyes Harry without turning his head. “I trust you don’t need me to escort you to your dorm this time?”

“What?”

“You really can’t handle your liquor, did you know?”

Harry catches onto Malfoy’s meaning: his blackout night after the Theodore Nott date. “I was fine,” he says. Well, he doesn’t know; it _could_ be true.

“You were fine before or after you vomited on my leather boots?”

A flash of the hem of Malfoy’s black robes, Hogsmeade’s terracotta pavement and acid in his throat returns to Harry. Fuck.

“And,” Malfoy continues, “was this before or after you asked if you could ride” – Harry splutters – “my back on our way to the Castle?”

“Did you–”

“Of course not, Potter, I levitated you. Then you, being the obnoxious drunk you are, proceeded to use nonverbal wandless magic – I confiscated your wand – to open all the doors and turn on all the lights we walked past. It would have been impressive if it wasn’t so ridiculously annoying.”

A flash of weightlessness, the hum of magic and urgent hushing in Malfoy’s quiet drawl. Harry knows the account must be true, but he’s never been able to do magic that effortlessly.

“And then, after all my selfless efforts to bring the great Harry Potter to bed safely, you had the audacity to slam your door in my face.”

A great thud, Ron’s waking croak, and a welcome collapse into turned-down sheets. _Well_ , Harry thinks, it could have been worse. He could have slept with Malfoy. He almost laughs aloud at the thought.

“Why are you still using my wand?” Malfoy asks suddenly.

Harry’s hand falls to the Hawthorn Wood in his pocket, fingers curling over it protectively. “It’s mine now.”

“I know. I don’t want it back. I’m simply curious why.”

“That’s for me to know and for you to mind your own business,” Harry says, throwing Malfoy’s earlier words back at him.

They reach the Castle entrance just as the sun sets, casting a shadow over the Black Lake. Harry spares a quick thought for Justin walking home alone in the dark, rejected. The concern passes easily; the guy’s a twat.

“Don’t vomit on my shoes again,” Malfoy says before pushing through the great double doors. This time, Harry doesn’t try and catch up. He slips back on his Invisibility Cloak and settles in for a night of roaming the castle.


	3. Dating Terry Boot

“Very funny, Harry!”

Harry regrettably looks up from his precariously stacked Monday breakfast plate to find Justin Finch-Fletchley staring down at him. “What?”

“You said we had common interests.”

Of course: the date. Justin was a prat, got called out for it and now apparently that’s Harry’s fault. “You do have things in common,” Harry insists. Although he can’t quite remember what anymore.

“He’s arrogant and entitled and rude.” Ah yes, maybe that’s what.

Harry prods a sausage at the top of his breakfast stack and watches as his carefully crafted assortment collapses like Jenga. “He’s really a softie on the inside,” Harry says, spearing the sausage before it rolls off the table. “Deep deep _deep_ inside but I’m sure it’s there. Somewhere. If you keep digging.”

Justin does not appear pleased with this very scientific analysis. “I never want to see Draco Malfoy again,” he announces before marching back to the Hufflepuff table.

Harry waves a fork lazily at his back in goodbye.

“What’s that all about?” Hermione asks.

Ron leans in from the opposite side of the table. “Did you sleep with Justin again?”

“Oh Harry, did you sleep with Justin _and_ Draco?”

“At the same time? Impressive, mate. That’s high maintenance for one bed.”

Harry drops his fork and dislodges himself from the bench, ignoring his friends’ intrusive questions. He treks across the Great Hall, keeping his eyes down as he passes by the Hufflepuffs, and then searching for Malfoy when he reaches the Slytherin table. He’s planted closest to the exit beside Parkinson with Zabini across from them. Excellent. Harry slides in next to Zabini.

“Great news, Malfoy.”

Malfoy regards Harry with narrowed eyes. “You’re immediately returning to the Gryffindor table?”

Harry ignores the jibe. “Justin never wants to see you again.”

Malfoy’s eyes flick to Parkinson, then Zabini, then back to Harry. He shrugs but there’s something contrary to it, something tense. “Suits me perfectly.”

Harry grabs a mini fruit tart from a platter – he’s never seen them at the Gryffindor table before – and takes a bite. Without a plate, the flaky crust crumbs pile on the table below him. He shoves the mess in Malfoy’s direction who vanishes it with a flick of his wand and a noticeable eye twitch. Malfoy opens his mouth several times as if to speak and then closes it again.

“You’re not going to sleep with him again, are you?” he finally asks. “Finch-Fletchley, I mean.”

Harry picks up a second tart, his eyes straying to Parkinson stifling giggles beside Malfoy. “What does it matter?”

Malfoy shrugs again, the picture of aloofness but he’s trying too hard. “You can do better.”

On Harry’s right, Zabini sniggers. Harry’s not certain if he’s on the in or out of a joke and he doesn’t like it. He scoops up as many tarts as he can carry (seven) and stands up. “I have done plenty, Malfoy, unlike you, so I’ll be the judge of that.”

Not bothering to watch Malfoy’s reaction, Harry turns and heads back to the Gryffindor table, taking back his place beside Hermione and dropping the tarts by his plate. All in all, he figures it was a successful excursion.

“Is something going on with you and Draco?” Hermione asks. She and Ron watch Harry’s face closely.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, _Harry_. That’s why we’re asking you.”

Harry carefully balances each tart in a stack above his deconstructed pile of savoury breakfast goods. “It’s nothing,” he lies.

* * *

The Ravenclaw eighth year dorms are on the south side of the castle and, in an annoying replication of their common room, someone has charmed the staircase leading to the second floor, south corridor to only move with the correct answer to a riddle.

Harry stands on the foot of this particular staircase on Wednesday afternoon, thoroughly annoyed.

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?” The staircase asks again.

“I have no idea!” Harry finally shouts.

“Great job, Harry.”

Luna Lovegood jumps on the staircase behind Harry just as it lurches to the side, realigning itself to the south corridor. She’s wearing Spectrespecs atop her head and matching Chocolate Frog cards with Harry’s face on them as earrings. The Harry Potter on the right is smiling but the other looks ready to make a run for it.

“Handsome, aren’t they? I have a set of Dumbledore too, but I like yours the best.”

Harry watches as the left Harry Potter ducks out of frame. “Thanks?”

The staircase stops and they both ascend to the fourth floor. As soon as their feet depart, the staircase moves off again, presumedly to torture another student with a pointless riddle.

“I’m visiting Lisa Turpin,” Luna announces as they walk the corridor together. “Her dorm has a Wrackspurt infestation. What are you doing?”

“Just want to chat with Terry Boot.”

“Are you seeing him again? He’s very nice.” She points to her left ear. “He gave me your card from his collection so I’d have a matching pair.”

“No, just want to chat.”

Luna stops outside a door and knocks. “Alright. I hope I see you again soon, Harry.” She beams at him as the door opens. “You’re one of the nicest people here.”

Harry forgets to smile back immediately and then Luna turns away and it’s too late. So much for nice. He continues along the corridor to the final door on the left and knocks.

“Harry,” Terry says grinning – genuine as always – as he swings open the door, “what a great surprise. What are you standing there for? Come on in!”

Harry had decided Terry Boot would be a nice change of pace for Malfoy. He’s a half-blood with a disregard for formalities and best of all: he’s genuinely kind. Of course, his glassy blue eyes and naturally too-square jawline don’t exactly weaken his cause either. No-one could have a bad date with Terry. Harry certainly never did.

Terry’s dorm is similar to Harry’s with two single beds and one window, except instead of scarlet red, the sheets and curtains are royal blue. Anthony Goldstein lies on one of the beds, half in-half out of the covers, his blue tie hanging loosely around his neck. He doesn’t even look up as Harry enters, all his concentration drawn to the Gameboy in his hands.

“I thought muggle tech didn’t work inside Hogwarts.”

“It didn’t,” Anthony says, still not looking away from the device. “Until _somebody_ invented a castle-wide stabilising charm.”

Harry turns to Terry who sits on the floor against his bed, depositing handfuls of Gobstones from an upturned floorboard into his robe pockets.

“Oh, it wasn’t just me,” he says. “There were a whole group of talented Ravenclaws involved. We’d been working on it since the start of the school year and had a lucky breakthrough just after Christmas.”

“He’s being humble,” says Anthony.

“It really was a group effort. Now what can I do for you, Harry? It’s been a while since...what I mean is it’s great to have you here again.” Terry pulls the floorboard down, and stands up, his pockets jingling. “You look really well.”

Anthony clears his throat and Harry turns to see him finally setting down his Gameboy. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Terry and Harry both say at once. Anthony shrugs and returns to his game.

Harry focuses back on Terry. It’s strange being in his dorm again. Even stranger to stare into those hypnotic blue eyes only to set him up with someone else. Harry mentally shushes his libido and gets straight to the point. “Would you be interested in dating Draco Malfoy?”

Terry’s beautiful eyes get big. “Isn’t he your enemy?”

“Archrival,” Harry corrects. There’s a fundamental difference. “But we have an agreement.”

“An agreement which requires you to play matchmaker.” Terry nods to himself. “Fascinating.”

“So, are you interested? Malfoy’s not evil anymore.”

Terry giggles. The sound brings back countless nights sneaking into Terry’s bed trying not to wake Anthony. Harry’s not so sure they were ever successful.

“What a great sell, Harry. No need though, I’ve seen him this year. He’s decidedly different. Intelligent too.” Terry hums, tapping his fingers across his chin. “A redeemed bad boy type, you could say.”

Anthony snorts. “Terry’s really into that.”

“Shhh Anthony, please. Yes, I suppose I’m open to one date, as long as I get to choose how we spend it.”

Harry agrees happily; it saves him planning something again. His dates haven’t been particularly fruitful for Malfoy but he has a good feeling about Terry. He politely declines an invite to a mass Ravenclaw Gobstones game and is just making his way down the riddle staircase – luckily no answer is required to leave – when he runs into Headmistress McGonagall. His attempt to slide past is botched by a tight grip on his shoulder.

“Potter, I’ve been hoping to catch you.”

Harry ducks to release himself from her hand. “Well, now you have, and I’m busy so…”

“Not so fast,” McGonagall says, and pins him in place with her stare. Somehow, it’s stronger than her grip. “I’ve noticed you’ve been spending some time with Mr Malfoy.”

Fuck, here we go. “Not really,” Harry lies.

McGonagall’s eyes narrow behind her thin specs. “I sincerely hope you’re not hung up on his Death Eater status again. It does no good to dwell on these things, and if we are to have a repeat of your sixth year–”

“I was right then,” Harry points out.

“Albus had it under control.”

They both look away at the mention of Dumbledore.

Headmistress McGonagall clears her throat. “Mr Malfoy is doing his best to turn over a new leaf and I would hate for you to let old prejudices arise.”

Harry plasters on his best teacher-appeasing smile. “It’s not like that. I’m just doing my bit for Interhouse Unity.”

“You best be serious, Potter. Interhouse Unity is not a joke.”

Just as she looks ready to delve into a lecture on her favourite topic, Harry is saved by Padma Patil descending the stairs beside them.

“Ms Patil, stop right there,” McGonagall says sternly. “Remove this riddle at once.” She nods curtly in Harry’s direction. “Keep up the good work in class. You’re well on your way to acing your NEWTs.”

Padma looks to Harry desperately for help but he’s not about to waste fate’s kind exit opportunity. He mouths ‘sorry’ and hightails it back to his dorm.

* * *

Every time Harry tries to approach Malfoy on Thursday, he and his friends scamper off. It makes no sense. Why ask for Harry’s dating advice only to avoid him? It’s incredibly frustrating.

By the time Harry makes it to Malfoy’s dorm in the afternoon, Glanmore Peakes gladly informs Harry he’s already left for work. Fed up with being avoided, Harry doesn’t even think before he makes the trek to Hogsmeade. It’s not like he has anything better to do. Not until Anthony Goldstein comes through on his recent promise to sneak in another Gameboy for him.

Donning his Invisibility Cloak when he reaches Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, Harry intends to secretly watch Malfoy work for a while. He takes a seat – not the loveseat of course, just a standard one – by the door and surveys the tea shop. Brianne’s here again, handling most of the greeting and serving. There’s another waitress too, popping in and out of the kitchen, but no Malfoy.

After less than five minutes of impatient staring at the kitchen door, Harry gives up the pretence; he takes off the Invisibility Cloak and approaches Brianne.

“Is Malfoy working tonight?”

Brianne smiles, too wide and too meaningful. “He’s in the back.”

“Can I…”

Her eyes flick down to the Invisibility Cloak draped over Harry’s arm. She shrugs, still smiling. “It’s not like I could stop you anyway.” There’s a ding from the front door and she leaves to greet the new customers.

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He slips into the kitchen, working his way past each corridor. This time, he finds Malfoy in the eleventh corridor back, dressed in all white with the same doily apron as Brianne. He’s focusing intently, all matter of sweet ingredients levitating around him, and he cradles a large – absurdly so – teapot.

“Guess who has a date with–”

The ingredients, all thirty plus of them, crash to the ground. The teapot, as if desperate to join its comrades, wobbles violently in Malfoy’s hands until he manages to balance it on the kitchen counter. He sighs loudly and pointedly before turning to Harry.

Harry starts again. “Guess who–”

“Forget that for a second, Potter.” Malfoy approaches, sidestepping a grapefruit and hopping over a smashed sugar jar. He only stops when he’s close enough to loom over Harry. “Never talk to me about dates in front of my friends again. Better yet, don’t talk to me in front of my friends at all.”

“But don’t they know–”

“No.”

Harry takes a step back so he can stop craning his neck just to meet Malfoy’s eye. “They must know _something_.”

“They know the bare minimum necessary.” Malfoy crosses his arms over his chest. “If they discover you’re setting me up with your exes, they’re going to wonder why. In turn, that will inevitably lead them to finding out about me.”

Harry had struggled to come out to Hermione and Ron at first, but once he did – and their reactions weren’t as dramatically tragic as the scenarios he had concocted in his head – the difference was so incredibly profound, he’d kicked himself for not doing it earlier. The true weight of a secret only reveals itself in hindsight. Malfoy still has that revelation ahead of him.

“Is it really so bad if they find out you’re trans?” Harry prods.

“Yes, Potter,” Malfoy says with the absolutely surety Harry remembers well from his own denial. “I’m the Malfoy heir. This could ruin my family.”

“Now you’re sounding like Theodore Nott.”

Malfoy’s eyes flash and he uncrosses his arms, pointing a finger at Harry instead. “Don’t you dare compare me with him.”

“Parkinson and Zabini are your best friends, right? Who are they going to tell? Trust me, you need people looking out for you.”

“Like you let Granger and Weasley look out for you?”

Harry fists clench of their own accord as unwelcome heat itches beneath his skin. Malfoy has _no idea_ what he’s talking about. “That’s different,” he says through gritted teeth. He doesn’t want to lose his temper again but he can hardly help it if Malfoy insists on baiting him.

“You are such a hypocrite, Potter. Don’t give me friendship advice and I won’t give you any.”

“ _Fine_.”

They stare at each other, stuck in place. Harry’s too stubborn to back down first and Malfoy is a proud arsehole so they could be here all night. For the first time and probably out of boredom, Harry notices a pale blue vein pressing against the skin of Malfoy’s neck and disappearing beneath the white collar of his work shirt. Malfoy has a nice neck, Harry realises, as far as necks go, that is. They’re not exactly the Citizen Kane of body parts. Unless you’re a vampire. Which Harry isn’t. Obviously. Although that at least would explain his completely baseless appreciation of his _archrival’s neck_.

Malfoy’s hands rise to the collar of his shirt but instead of seductively caressing his own neck – a conclusion Harry’s vampire alter ego must jump to – he simply pulls the string of the apron over his head, chucks the collage of doilies onto the bench and sits up beside it, letting his legs dangle. 

“Tell me about the date,” he says.

Harry snaps out of his strange neck-worshipping trance and remembers his earlier anger. “Oh, so dating advice is still okay?”

“ _Potter_.”

Harry leans back against the work bench across from Malfoy and gives in. He came all this way after all. “It’s Terry Boot.”

“Terry Boot!” Malfoy has the nerve repeat the name with humour, derision even. He clearly hasn’t experienced the wonder of those blue eyes yet.

“What’s wrong with Terry?”

Malfoy tilts his head as if to mock the question. “For starters, he’s a Ravenclaw.”

Harry ignores this. “He’s a half-blood and he’s smart, but not a snob,” he lists. “I’m willing to bet he would have no idea what fork to start with at a fancy restaurant. Or if he knows, he’d deliberately use the opposite.”

“Is that supposed to entice me?”

Is there no pleasing Malfoy? Terry Boot is a catch. In fact, if it weren’t for Malfoy, Harry would be asking Terry out again for himself. However, he doesn’t think sharing this sacrifice will go over well, so instead he simply answers: “It’s what you asked for.” ~~~~

“And what did you break up with this one for?” Malfoy asks in a bored voice.

“Actually, he, er, broke up with me.”

Malfoy leans forward, all boredom gone. “And?”

“It’s nothing,” Harry says, adjusting his glasses to avoid Malfoy’s interrogating eyes (if only for a brief moment), “he just didn’t think I was over my ex when we dated.”

Terry was right as usual. Harry never appreciated their relationship at the time because he was still too hung up watching for the swing of _her_ long black plait in the Great Hall, her melodic voice around the next corridor, and when Terry took him stargazing, Harry could only think of the constellations she had already shown him. 

“Which ex would that be?” ~~~~

Harry hasn’t voiced her name in a long time, and he’s relieved to find it no longer sticks in his throat: “Parvati Patil.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow, but he must think better of questioning Harry’s bisexuality again because he drops it just as quickly. “What happened?”

“She broke up with me because she _divined_ we wouldn’t last.”

The memory is still fresh from the start of the school year. Harry had been waiting in their dorm for Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown’s late return from a special combined Divination/Astronomy class. For the first time since they’d begun dating over the Summer, Parvati didn’t smile when she saw Harry. Lavender knew something too, because she couldn’t get into the bathroom to hide fast enough. Then, after dropping the bombshell, Parvati wouldn’t answer any of Harry’s questions on her prediction, she would only frustratingly repeat: “You’re better off finding the path yourself.”

Malfoy reacts to the news of Parvati’s preposterous dumping appropriately; he screw ups his sharp features and shakes his head. “That’s stupid.”

“That’s what I said!” Harry says, letting remembered bitterness leak into his voice. “Obviously, it didn’t help.”

Malfoy stares at Harry but there’s no animosity this time. If anything, he looks sympathetic. It’s disconcerting. Harry busies himself cleaning his glasses on his shirt just to fill the time.

“Where’s the date?” Malfoy finally asks.

“The Astronomy Tower.”

Malfoy’s face drops, but only for a second before he rights himself and plasters on a transparent smirk. 

Only now, from Malfoy’s initial reaction, does Harry realise what a terrible location he let Terry choose. Malfoy probably hasn’t been up to the top of the Astronomy Tower since the night Dumbledore died. The night he let all those Death Eaters into Hogwarts. It’s not that Harry’s forgotten, just that he visits the tower regularly in his Invisibility Cloak, so much so that it hardly holds those memories for him anymore.

Malfoy, unsurprisingly, is intent on hiding his vulnerability behind the mask of a smirk and Harry knows better to comment. He clears his throat. “Stargazing is romantic,” he continues. “You can point out the Draco constellation.”

“Oh yes, and that won’t come off exceedingly arrogant, will it?” Malfoy pauses to roll his eyes in a dramatic flourish. “When?”

“Midnight, next Wednesday.”

“Maybe it skipped your notice since you don’t bother to attend but that’s a school night.”

This time, Harry barely notices the slight. “It’s the clearest forecast for stargazing. Terry insisted. And–” Harry grins, anticipating Malfoys reaction – “I may have mentioned you’d be bringing a basket of treats.”

True to Harry’s expectations, Malfoy scrunches his nose. “ _Potter_.”

“I’ve already arranged it with Dobby in the kitchens.”

Dobby runs the Hogwarts kitchen as the Head Chef now, with humans and elves alike reporting to him. Headmistress McGonagall banned students from access to the kitchens after an awkward Firewhisky incident, but Dobby always finds a way to sneak Harry in, or sneak treats out. Whatever connections Malfoy has, Harry’s are clearly infinitely better.

“So, don’t worry, Malfoy. You won’t have to lift a single entitled finger.”

* * *

“ _Harry_.”

As if Malfoy’s visit started a train reaction, now on an otherwise perfectly ordinary Tuesday, Hermione stands in the doorway of Harry’s dorm, tip-toe voice and all. 

“I’m busy,” Harry answers, keeping his eyes on his levitating wand. Even with the distraction, it still rises consistently. He’s making progress.

_“Look at me, Harry.”_

“I’m busy,” he repeats.

“So am I!” Hermione yells, “I’m skipping an advanced NEWT level class for you, Harry James Potter, so the least you could do is look at me!”

Her voice is so unfamiliar, so un-tiptoe-ish, that out of shock more than anything, Harry obeys, letting his wand drop to the bed. Not to mention, no one’s ever used his full name before, not since he chose it in their fourth year.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” she continues in a softer voice, approaching Harry’s bed, “at Voldemort, at the world, at Dumbledore, even. But you can’t keep directing it at us. You make Ron feel like a shit friend, almost constantly.”

So, she wants an argument. Great. Harry sits up. “If he–”

“You ignore us both and avoid me as much as you can,” she continues.

“That’s–”

“I’ve tried to be supportive and patient and not take it personally, but it’s not like you have a problem talking to anyone else. Luna asked me this morning if you were dating Terry Boot again and I had to admit I have no idea what’s going on in my supposed best friend’s life.”

Hermione paces back and forth at the foot of Harry’s bed, arms crossed, tight bushy ringlets bouncing with her every step. “And now,” she continues, “you’re friendly with Draco Malfoy, of all people.”

“Malfoy’s not that bad,” Harry counters automatically. Thank god Malfoy himself isn’t around to hear the confession and gloat.

“I know, Harry!” Hermione turns and holds her place at the foot of Harry’s bed. “Do you want to know how I know that? Because _I’m_ friends with Draco, not like you’ve even bothered to notice what happens in anyone’s life but your own recently.”

Harry blinks back at her. He must be hearing her wrong. “You and Malfoy?”

Hermione ignores the question. “If you can talk to him, someone you claim to despise, then I don’t know where that leaves me and Ron.”

Her voice is hard but there’s still something soft in her eyes, tears just below the surface. Harry wants to comfort her, to explain himself properly for once, but just looking at her (or Ron for that matter) these days makes him so hot under the skin, so angry, he can barely think or breathe. And, as usual, he snaps. “Maybe I just don’t like getting yelled at.”

Hermione nods, as if expecting this, and turns to the door. “I’ll stop bothering you, then.”

* * *

Harry hasn’t attended a History of Magic class in at least a month. He remembers why as soon as Professor Binns starts talking. Not to mention that attendance is never monitored, and Harry’s presence or lack thereof is as notable as the tonal changes in Professor Binns’ voice.

Hermione is giving Harry the cold shoulder – now who’s ignoring who? – and Ron has dutifully sandwiched himself between the two. Harry spends the lesson focusing on the glass in the window at the rear of the room, willing it to break. It doesn’t of course, but he definitely makes it tremor at one point. That or it’s windy outside. 

When Professor Binns finishes droning and the class is called to a close, Harry lets Hermione exit first; she’s steadfastly refusing to look in his direction and followed by a weak-smiling faux-apologetic Ron. It doesn’t bother Harry, in fact, it suits him perfectly. He’ll enjoy a quiet walk back to the dorm, without small talk and questions and piteous expressions.

He’s the last to exit the classroom – even Binns has drifted off through a side wall – and he commences his journey back leisurely, one hand in his pocket twirling his wand absently. So, he is entirely unprepared when after only a few steps down the corridor, he is yanked violently into a broom cupboard and pressed up against–

“Malfoy? What the fuck?”

The door swings shut. It’s hard to see with only the light from a Lumos charm, but Malfoy looks far from his usual smooth, collected self. His eyes dart around, searching for Harry’s face in the dark and the rest of his body is much too fidgety for such a small space. _Fuck_ , it’s a _really_ small space.

“I can’t pick out Draco. In the sky,” Malfoy says, warm breath striking Harry’s face in full peppermint force. “I don’t know which one it is!”

“But you chose your own name,” Harry points out. He would laugh, but there’s not enough air in the cupboard.

“It sounded nice, and it’s Black tradition.”

Harry tries to take a step back, away from Malfoy’s peppermint assault but behind him is only wall, and to his left his only wall, and to his right is–

“Potter, you have to help me!”

Harry pushes the door and it doesn’t budge. He tries again. Calmly. CALMLY. He kicks the stupid thing and nothing. Has Malfoy spelled it shut? Why would Malfoy spell it shut? What kind of sick person would do that? Harry doesn’t even have to focus, he just thinks it once and the door bursts open wide with his magic. He leaps out.

Malfoy follows but his voice has transitioned from panic to irritation. “What’s the point in setting me up for a date only to watch me fail?” he whispers. His head whips back and forth, monitoring their surrounds. Of course, Draco Malfoy cannot be seen with Harry Potter, only a cramped broom cupboard will do.

Letting the much more reasonable space of the corridor comfort him, Harry takes a couple of deep breaths as quietly as possible. When the air around him feels normal again, Harry recommences his formally peaceful walk and gestures for Malfoy to follow him.

“You know how to find Draco?” Malfoy asks, two steps behind.

“No, but I know someone who will.”

* * *

“Harry!” Parvati starts to smile until her bottomless brown eyes – Harry’s not falling, _he’s not!_ – land on something (someone) over Harry’s shoulder. “And…Malfoy?”

“Interhouse unity,” Harry lies by way of explanation. Not that it’s particularly explanatory. But he doubts he and Malfoy will be able to agree on a cover story anyway.

Despite her conflicting expression, Parvati welcomes Harry and Malfoy into her dorm. She quickly picks up some clothes scattered over the floor and tosses them under her bed, but it does little to help the state of the room. Lavender would never let Parvati get away with such a mess which can only mean…

“Lavender’s travelling with her parents,” Parvati says, following Harry’s eyes. “There’s a music festival in Australia.”

Harry nods, accepting the lie in front of Malfoy. It’s always a different story to avoid suspicion, but Lavender’s had so many absences this year, she’s missed more school than Harry. Not only is she away every full moon, but another 2-3 times a month. When Fenrir attacked her, he didn’t just transform her, he left her so sickly that she’s regularly back at St Mungo’s for another blood transfusion or experimental treatment.

Malfoy must suspect something but thankfully he doesn’t show it. Parvati would undoubtably spell him out the door in a heartbeat if he even made one snarky comment about Lavender. He paces the room the same way he did Harry’s dorm.

“What are you doing?” Parvati asks, shooting Harry a look behind Malfoy’s back that clearly says _Get him the fuck out of here._

Malfoy stops by the window and locks it. “Habit. I don’t appreciate being snuck up upon.”

“Hmm,” Harry says pointedly, thinking of a particularly suffocating broom cupboard, “I agree, that would be incredibly annoying.”

Parvati flicks a long plait behind her shoulder. Flecks of gold wire interwoven in her deep brown hair catch the light from the dorm’s suspended candles. “Go on and tell me what you want already.”

“Malfoy needs some Astronomy guidance.” (Parvati sticks out her tongue in obvious distaste.) “And you’re the expert,” Harry adds to butter her up.

“I _am_ the expert,” she agrees, carefully; she’s too smart to succumb to Harry’s flattery, “but that doesn’t mean I give out free advice.”

“You will when you find out how tragic this is.”

“How tragic?”

“He doesn’t know how to spot the Draco constellation.”

Parvati gasps, as Harry knew she would, and she turns to Malfoy with a hand clutched to her chest. “Your own name!”

Malfoy waves her off, leaning back into the window alcove. “Potter’s already done that bit.”

“This is _really_ tragic. More than.” She turns back to Harry and nods sombrely. “You were right to bring him to me.”

Harry grins. “Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

Parvati furrows her thick styled eyebrows so tight they almost meet in the middle. She’s always had an impressively expressive forehead. “This is serious, Harry.”

“You’re cute when you’re serious.”

Her forehead relaxes and she smiles for half a second before her mouth twists into a smirk. “And you’re annoying when you’re not.”

Harry steps closer to Parvati and is delighted by the way she rises one eyebrow impossibly high in response. He takes one more – one last – step, employs his best smoulder (the one Parvati adores), and lowers his voice. “You’re cute when you find me annoying.”

Malfoy – shit, he’s still here? – wolf whistles obnoxiously. “You really _are_ bisexual.”

Harry rolls his eyes at Parvati – who sticks out her tongue again – before turning on Malfoy. “Thank you ever so much for validating my existence. I am finally at peace.”

“My apologies, Potter,” Malfoy says, sounding almost genuine, “I–”

“An apology? From Draco Malfoy? Somebody owl The Daily Prophet. This is front page news.”

Malfoy ignores Harry’s expert sass and continues, although now his voice is harder. “I thought we were the same. Obviously, I was mistaken. You’re clearly much more promiscuous.”

The familiar itch beneath Harry’s skin resurfaces. He strides across the room to stand over Malfoy. “Are you saying bisexuals are sluts?”

Malfoy stands up, surpassing Harry. “No, Potter, I don’t presume to know anything about bisexuality. I am saying you, Harry Potter,” – he prods a finger into Harry’s chest – “are a slut.”

Harry stares down at the pointed finger until Malfoy removes it.

“Did you guys need a moment?” Parvati asks from somewhere behind Harry.

“Yes!” Harry shouts at the same time Malfoy says, “No.”

“I am not a slut,” Harry continues anyway. “You’re just a prude virgin who can’t see beyond the end of his pompous nose.”

“I am not a prude.”

“Yes, you are or you wouldn’t call me a slut.”

“If I’m such a prude, Potter, then why do I–” Malfoy cuts off abruptly.

“Why do you what?” Harry asks and then when Malfoy doesn’t answer immediately, he asks again. “Why do you _what_?”

“Never mind, Potter,” Malfoy says which only makes Harry mind more. “I misspoke.”

Harry lets out a frustrated bark of laughter. He’s mad still, but curious too, and delighted. Utterly delighted. “You did not misspeak. You were going to confess to something slutty. Jesus Christ, Malfoy, what have you done?”

Malfoy’s eyes do a mad dance avoiding Harry. “Don’t quote muggle deities you don’t believe in. It’s insensitive.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Malfoy crosses his arms haughtily. “I have nothing more to say about this.”

“You’re definitely a virgin so I won’t even go there.” Harry thinks carefully, all the while watching Malfoy’s face for a reaction. “Do you have embarrassing fantasies, is that it? Professor Slughorn? Binns? One of the ghosts?” Harry gasps, just for the drama. “The Bloody Baron?”

“ _Potter_!”

With Malfoy’s pale skin, his embarrassment is obvious from the crude blush that extends to the tops of his ears and even travels down past his collar-line. Harry’s grateful his own brown skin isn’t as fickle, but has no qualms taking full advantage of Malfoy’s predicament.

“I can’t believe you get off on The Bloody Baron. He’s called The Bloody Baron for a reason, you know? If that’s what knocks your socks off, I’m sorry but you really need to re-evaluate your fantasies.”

Harry’s tease is rewarded with a scowl and – unless Harry’s imagining it – sparks erupting from Malfoy’s wand pocket.

“I am not attracted to The Bloody Baron, you absolute and complete imbecile.”

“Then who? Or What?” Harry smirks as he remembers his advantage. “You have to tell me, Malfoy. _I’m_ helping _you_ out, remember.”

Malfoy sighs with impressive lung capacity and meets Harry’s eye. “Alright, I’ll tell you, just as soon as you set me up with a date I am actually compatible with.”

Harry considers the counter-offer. He can’t think of anyone not compatible with Terry Boot, so really, he’ll only have to wait half a day. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Malfoy spits back.

Harry steps away from Malfoy – they’d somehow ended up almost chest to chest while arguing –and turns back to Parvati. She’s sitting on her bed retying the ends of her plait and watching them both with a vacant (read: bored) expression.

“Do you want me to show you guys this constellation or what?”

Harry shoots her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Parvati.”

Malfoy, Harry notices, says nothing. Good thing too, because his apologies are rubbish. 

Parvati swishes her wand over her head, flushing out the candlelight and blacking out the windows all at once, but the room does not transcend into complete darkness. Because, glowing above their heads, covering the entire ceiling and creeping down some of the walls, are stars. 

Harry struggles to take in all the incredible detail. Last time he saw the display, it was much smaller, barely covering the space above Parvati’s bed.

“You finished it.”

Parvati snorts. “Hardly, I just ran out of ceiling. You,” she jumps up and turns on Malfoy, prodding the glowing tip of her wand into his chest. “Lie down on the floor and pay attention.”

* * *

Harry settles himself into a corner at the top of the Astronomy Tower with his Invisibility Cloak and a heating charm. Malfoy’s off picking up the basket of treats from Dobby and Terry Boot’s already here early, a wistful expression on his face as he dangles his legs over the balcony edge.

Somewhere along the way – let’s face it from the first date with Theodore Nott – Harry’s grown invested in Malfoy’s quest to find a compatible date. He’ll never admit it out loud, but he’s _rooting_ for Malfoy, and despite his own interest in Terry Boot, he genuinely wants the two to work as a couple. And they will, they _must,_ because who couldn’t fall for kind, honest, intelligent Terry Boot?

“Draco!” Terry announces before Harry even notices Malfoy’s reached the top of the stairs, picnic basket in hand. “You’re right on time. That is, if time was anything other than a social construct to interpret the world.”

The thing with Terry is, he has such a nonthreatening casual air about him, he can say otherwise pompous shit without sounding arrogant in the slightest. 

Malfoy’s face is drained of all tone to the point of appearing corpse-adjacent. His eyes rake over the room slowly, deliberately, until they land on Terry on the balcony, at the edge where…where it happened. He swallows so forcibly Harry can see it play out across his throat.

“Boot.”

“Call me Terry. It’s short for Terrence, actually, but only my mum and dad call me that. It comes from Terentius which means heart but no one calls me that.”

Harry’s always found Terry’s unassuming rambles comforting and Draco must too because something in his face relaxes and he approaches the balcony with the beginning of a smile.

“Terentius it is. How are you this evening?”

Terry drops down on his back and tilts his head against the floor to face Malfoy. “Save your small talk for the Professors. You have great bone structure by the way, it’s especially obvious when you smile.”

Malfoy freezes – Terry’s upfront attitude can be disconcerting – but just for a second before his smile grows. “Thank you. You have nice–”

“Oh no, you don’t need to trade. I offer my compliments freely. I see you brought snacks! I’m seduced already. Lie with me.” Terry pats the balcony space beside him.

Malfoy makes no move to lie down. He turns around, eyes raking every inch, every _corner_ of the Tower. Harry releases one hand from his Invisibility Cloak in a quick wave. It must only appear as a flash to Malfoy but he nods in Harry’s direction.

“If you fall, I’ll catch you.”

Terry’s words must comfort Malfoy because he does then lie down, placing the basket between them and letting his feet disappear over the edge.

“I used to sneak out onto the roof as a young child and count the stars,” Terry says. “I refused to come down until I thought I’d counted every single one. Mum thought there was something wrong with me. I just like stars. Do you like stars?”

“Yes,” Malfoy says unconvincingly. There’s still tension in his voice, a distant ache that can’t be hidden from Harry, even beneath the poshest of drawls. “I can show you Draco.”

Terry claps his hands together. “Oh yes please, I haven’t been able to find Draco in years. Orion, easy.” He traces out a pattern in the sky but the angle is too far off for Harry to match to the constellation. “Cassiopeia, it takes time but...there!” He traces another pattern. “However, Draco,” – he drops his hands – “it’s like all the stars suddenly went dark one day.”

Malfoy is quiet for too long. It frustrates Harry at first – not another awkward silence, Malfoy, _please_ – until the realisation hits. Even after all Parvati’s training, Malfoy still can’t find Draco in the sky. A couple of times, he starts to raise an arm as if to trace a pattern, but just as quickly he drops it. Tragic.

Of course, Terry does not point this tragedy out. He’s honest, sure, but kind too, always kind. When the silence has stretched far too long for comfort, he sits up and opens Dobby’s carefully crafted basket of treats uninvited. He retrieves two pumpkin pies and gently pushes one into Malfoy’s hand while he bites into the other.

“Did you know,” he says with his mouth full, “many people credit the ancient Greeks as the founders of astronomy when really it dates even further back to the time of–”

Between bites, Terry continues to prattle on but it’s sweet and enthusiastic, and never arrogant. His voice is comforting too, so comforting, in fact, that when Harry drops his head back against the wall behind, he falls asleep within minutes.

Groggy and annoying alert at the same time, Harry comes to later in the night (or should he say the morning). He’s no idea how much time has passed – the sun is still yet to rise at least – except that he’s missed something significant. Terry and Malfoy are standing now, leaning against the railing, and yet their body language makes the position look more intimate than when they were lying down. 

Harry carefully – and to his exhausted body’s great reluctance – stands up and gets closer to the couple. He doesn’t want to miss anything else. Knowing his luck, they were probably gossiping about him while he slept.

Just as Harry reaches the balcony, Terry turns fully to Malfoy. “I found Draco,” he says, “and shining particularly bright tonight.”

The line, so smooth and so sweet, causes Harry to draw audible breath but no one looks his way. Malfoy, the complete fool, is too busy scanning the skyline.

“Are you sure? Where?”

It’s only when Terry slips a hand over Malfoy’s over the railing, that the idiot finally turns and notices Terry’s intense gaze. His face flushes immediately.

“That doesn’t count.”

Terry smiles, giddy and perfect. “Bu you are very bright.”

Malfoy returns the smile, almost. It doesn’t crinkle his eyes like Terry’s always do. “Thank you. I’ve had a charming night. One of the best I’ve had in a long time.” His eyes flick impossibly to Harry’s location and back to Terry. “I have to go now.”

Then, just like that, he turns and leaves, barely missing Harry’s invisible shoulder. Harry hurries down the Tower stairs after him.

“So, you and Terry hit it off,” he says breathlessly. Malfoy is descending the winding staircase _fast_.

“I guess.”

“Should I organise a second date?”

“No.”

“Oh, you have it under control now?”

They reach the base of the Astronomy Tower and Malfoy swivels around, his eyes landing somewhere above Harry’s head. “No, Potter, he’s not my type.”

“But he made you blush!” Harry points out. In fact, he can still see the evidence of it at Malfoy’s neck.

“No, he didn’t.”

Harry drops the Invisibility Cloak to his shoulders just so he can give Malfoy his best _you’re clearly lying_ expression.

“Alright, so I enjoyed the attention. Is that what you want to hear? Regardless, it doesn’t matter. I’m not into him like that. As I said, he’s _not my type_.”

“What _is_ your type?”

Malfoy’s face flits through too many expressions to count, and too fast for any of them to register properly. His lips twist, curl, pout, harden and finally open. “I hate to say this but I think you need to set me up with a Gryffindor.”

“A Gryffindor?” Harry repeats, thinking – no, _knowing_ – he’s heard wrong.

Malfoy raises a finger. “Don’t start.”

Harry stares back at Malfoy blankly, his brain whirling faster than his body can comprehend.

“I mean it, Potter. Not one word.”

Harry obeys, but only because he can’t remember how to pronounce any word in the dictionary right now. Before his synapses even begin to fire again, Malfoy turns back around and strides off, leaving Harry alone on the last step. He hitches his Invisibility Cloak back up and sits down, exhausted and confused.

He’s still there, pondering the workings of Malfoy’s mind, when Terry Boot trudges down hours later. Terry Boot, who is suddenly very available again. Despite the early hour of the morning, Harry perks up.


	4. Dating Cormac McLaggen

Harry’s not a poet, or a lyricist, or an artist, but Terry Boot’s eyes can make a man desperate for creative expression, if only to explain what cannot be explained in standard prose. Harry wants to compare them to hundred-year-old sea glass or that very particular shade of sky when the sun shines through – not between, _through_ – the clouds, but inevitably he knows his words will come out undeveloped and juvenile. Still, he calls on his Gryffindor courage and approaches Terry in the Great Hall on Thursday morning because it would be worse _not_ to say something.

“Hey, Terry,” Harry starts, already feeling his throat begin to close up. This isn’t supposed to happen to Harry. He’s an experienced flirt, an _expert_ some would say. This is his _thing_.

Terry doesn’t even look up which is probably a good thing because Harry is very close to crumbling. Instead, his gaze remains locked across the Great Hall.

“Don’t mind him,” Anthony Goldstein says at Harry’s elbow. “He’s just fantasising about your friend, Malfoy.”

“He’s not my friend,” Harry corrects at the same time Terry whispers, “Not fantasising, _remembering_.”

Anthony snorts. “You were seconds away from drooling.”

Harry’s heart deflates. Somehow, he’d convinced himself overnight that the time was finally right for him and Terry. He hadn’t even considered Terry might have a different view of the date to Malfoy. “So, er, last night went well?” he hedges.

Terry smiles softly. “No, he’s not interested in me.”

“But Terry is interested in him,” Anthony adds unnecessarily; Terry’s eyes say everything.

Terry’s wistful gaze across the Great Hall never wavers. “The heart wants what it wants,” he says with a shrug.

He already knows what he’ll find, but Harry turns to confirm the object of Terry’s stare anyway. Malfoy sits with Parkinson this morning, leaning back from the table as she eats from his plate. Harry supposes he can see the appeal if he tries to look objectively rather than as Malfoy’s archrival. He’s already noticed the neck, obviously, but there’s also Malfoy’s sharp features as if every edge of his face has been carefully crafted. And those ice-grey eyes demand enough attention to rival Terry’s…or would if Malfoy wasn’t such a prat of course. Harry quickly turns back around.

“So you, er, you really like him?”

Terry thrums his fingers over the empty plate in front of him. “I know it’s not going to happen again but try telling that to my oxytocin-addicted lovesick brain.”

“This is nothing,” Anthony says, leaning over the table and dumping a messy spatula of shakshuka on Terry’s plate. “You should have seen him when you two broke up.”

“Why did you break up with me then?” Harry asks Terry.

“You know why, Harry. It was the right thing for you.”

“At the time,” Harry clarifies. Well, _hints._ Not that it does any good.

“And” – Terry’s beautiful blue eyes are shining now but not at Harry – “if we’d never broken up, I never would have discovered that Draco Malfoy is my true soulmate. A tragedy befitting of Shakespeare’s pen!”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says and he means it. That’s twice he’s broken Terry Boot’s heart now. Sweet undeserving Terry Boot.

“Don’t be, Harry. ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

“He’ll get over it in a month,” Anthony says confidently, throwing a spoon across the table.

Terry jerks away when it hits him in the forehead and his dreamy eyes finally fall away from Malfoy. He picks the spoon up and stares into his own reflection instead. “What is time when we only can live in the now?”

“Er,” Harry intelligently offers in answer.

Anthony twists his head to address Harry properly. “Did you need something?”

“Nope. Not at all. Thanks.” Harry offers a smile at Terry that goes completely unnoticed. “I really am sorry.”

Knowing he’s overstaying his welcome, and feeling more than a little awkward, Harry hightails it over to the Gryffindor table, settling himself next to Hermione, who pointedly does not look up.

“Are you dating Terry Boot again?” Ron asks from across the table. He has two plates – one for sweet and one for savoury – and one bowl – cereal – in front of him. He eats from all three simultaneously.

Hermione’s reading The Daily Prophet as usual, but she raises it high, hiding her face at Ron’s question. Still mad, apparently.

“Unfortunately not,” Harry mutters in answer, diving straight into a communal bowl of scrambled eggs with a fork. Hermione would usually admonish him for it, but that would require actually speaking to him again.

Breakfast is quiet for some time and Harry is grateful. He uses the time to both stuff his face and consider last night’s date. Draco Malfoy has poor taste not to fall for Terry, especially with such gentle encouragement. And on the flip side, what is it about Malfoy that makes him so attractive to Terry anyway? Sure, he’s pleasant to look at – okay, admittedly _more_ than pleasant – but Terry’s not superficial. Malfoy must somehow impress him with his character as well, his arrogant, stuck-up, contrary, dramatic, witty, intelligent character. Hmmm. Harry really needs to get laid. All this matchmaking for Malfoy is making him think too much.

Sometime between Harry’s fifth and sixth plate of food, Hermione finally drops The Daily Prophet with an unmissable huff. Harry’s not sure if he’s supposed to react to it or not. He doesn’t. Next, Hermione unrolls a long piece of parchment – the size she usually reserves for Arithmancy essays – and set ups her ink and quill. _Dear Joanne K.R,_ she writes, which can only mean one thing. There’s another update about Harry. He reaches for the discarded newspaper immediately. Hermione jerks out a hand to stop him but she’s too late.

“It’s not worth it,” she says softly, but Harry’s already flicking to page four where the articles about him always are.

The Daily Prophet’s journalist, Joanne K.R, has limited herself to a quarter page article this time but she certainly packs in the ‘breaking’ news. To Harry’s surprise, he has a ‘private surgery’ planned for tomorrow with a muggle doctor famous for ‘controversial gender treatments’ and as a result, he’ll be out of school for the rest of the year.

“I wonder when my doctor was going to tell me,” he mutters when he’s finished reading the garbage excuse for journalism.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Hermione smiling at his jibe, but she quickly rights herself, returning to serious letter-writing (and ignoring Harry) mode.

“Oh, bloody hell.”

Hermione’s head snaps up at Ron’s exclamation. “What?”

Ron grabs the newspaper from Harry’s hands, reading an article on the reverse side. “McLaggen’s writing for the Prophet now? Like it wasn’t already trash enough.”

“He’s not that bad, Ronald.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“An idiot with great biceps,” Hermione counters slyly, ducking her head back down to her letter.

While Ron spends the rest of breakfast not so subtly flexing his arms above the table, Harry steals the paper back and reads Cormac’s article. Unlike Joanne’s, it’s not total drivel; it covers a recent Quidditch game and relies on actual reporting rather than sensationalism. The writing’s also surprisingly good. Cormac’s independent nature obviously suits him far better in writing than it did during his short stint on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Oh! A terrible perfect thought comes to him. Cormac McLaggen is a _half-blood_ _Gryffindor_ idiot with great biceps! He jumps up, still grasping the paper and hurries from the Great Hall.

* * *

“Potter, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Headmistress McGonagall leans over her desk peering at overlaying parchments with her thin specs. Her head lifts only the tiniest fraction at Harry’s entrance. The office passwords are easier to guess than when Dumbledore was Headmaster. Each week it’s the name of someone lost in the Battle of Hogwarts. And it’s never been the same name twice.

Harry sucks in a breath and summons his very-serious-chosen-one face. “I urgently need to use your Floo.”

Abandoning her papers, McGonagall steps around her desk and inspects Harry’s face with a clinical eye. Even indoors, she’s wearing her crooked witch’s hat which gives her an intimidating air of authority. “Your lessons are starting soon,” she says.

It’s not a no.

“Just for communication, not for travel. Please Headmistress, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Her eyes drop to The Daily Prophet still bawled up in Harry’s fist. At first, she purses her lips, but then just as quickly her face softens. “If it were any other student...” she mutters. “Fine, Potter, go ahead, but only because your track record has proven your instincts, even when reckless, are generally right. You have ten minutes.”

Harry grins, victorious, and heads over to the tall fireplace at the back of the office. Floo in hand from the mantelpiece, he drops to his knees in front of it. Just as he is ducking his head into the flames, McGonagall’s stern voice rings out behind him. 

“I am certain you won’t take advantage of my trust in this matter.”

Harry ignores it, ignores the guilt that tries to worm its way into his mind. There’s hardly enough room for any more of it. His head spins, swirling through the Floo network, and affording him quick flashes of foreign fireplaces until he – or at least his head – reaches his destination. He’s only ever seen the place via Floo so even upside down, it’s easy to see that not much has changed. The apartment is small, kitchenette and bed (with a Golden Snitch duvet) all squished into the same room, and a tall armchair with golden embroidery placed in the centre, completely out of place. In that armchair sits Cormac McLaggen.

“Harry Potter, long time no Floo.” He rolls up a piece of parchment hovering beside him, vanishes his quill and rests his chin in one hand, eyes sparkling. “I’ve missed your dangling head.”

Early on last Summer, they’d worked out Floo calls could be used for more than just talking, and Harry knows they’re both thinking about it now, even after not seeing each other for many months. Harry wipes the drool from the corner of his mouth and gets straight to the point.

“Are you still single?”

“Depends who’s asking. If it’s you, definitely.” Cormac winks, languid and suggestive, and Harry can feel it all the way back to his body in McGonagall’s office.

“It’s Malfoy,” he says quickly to curb Cormac’s misunderstanding.

Cormac sits up straight, eyes blinking furiously. “Draco Malfoy? Seriously?”

“He’s–”

“Draco Malfoy,” Cormac repeats but his voice has changed to something airier, more wistful. “Yeah alright, I can swing it.”

And that’s literally all it takes to convince him. Does nobody remember Malfoy was a Death Eater?

Cormac stands up, approaching the fireplace. “Was he asking after me or something?”

“Something like that,” Harry says vaguely. It’s not like he can answer truthfully, and the flattery will keep Cormac’s interest.

“And he made you Floo call for him? Does he know about our delicious history?”

Harry’s eyes drop to Cormac’s crotch, now at eye level and barely inches away from his face. His tongue skates his lower lip without his permission. “Just a taste,” he answers.

“Speaking of...” Cormac’s voice is thick and so is something increasingly visible in his pants.

Harry considers the consequences of his actions, he really does, but he’s here now and so is Cormac and they still have seven minutes left and it’s not like Malfoy’s dated Cormac yet so technically he’s off the hook morally and, well, he’s horny. He tears his eyes away from Cormac’s crotch and cranes his neck to look him in the eye. They share a smile, familiar and evocative, and Harry nods far too enthusiastically.

* * *

“ _Cormac McLaggen_ ,” Malfoy repeats, swinging his legs back up onto the ledge of the Astronomy Tower. “I am beginning to think you’ve never dated any of these people and you’re simply having a laugh at my expense.”

“Cormac’s cool,” Harry says, sitting down beside Malfoy before his archrival has a chance to stand up and begin evasion tactics. Harry was surprised to find Malfoy’s dot on the Maurauders Map marked here, but there’s no one else around on a Friday night – there’s a party in the Hufflepuff Common Room – so they’re perfectly safe from prying eyes. No reason for Malfoy to run away or, worse, pull them into a broom cupboard again.

Malfoy pauses, hand braced on the rail ready for escape, and eyes Harry suspiciously. Harry stares back blankly, innocently, until Malfoy relents and relaxes, dropping his legs back over the ledge.

“McLaggen’s a terrible Quidditch player,” he says. “Didn’t he knock you unconscious during a game?”

“Yes, but in his defence, I absolutely deserved that.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow.

“I was trying to keep him distracted for Hermione’s sake and” – Harry cringes at the shameful memory – “I may have unintentionally led him on.”

“Oh, Potter, you heartbreaker,” Malfoy admonishes but his expression is gleeful. “How’d you manage that?”

Harry looks out across the grounds, away from judgmental eyes, as he recounts the dishonourable affair. “It was just he was so swoony over Hermione even after we hooked up that I figured there was no harm if I told him some lovey dovey stuff.” Harry deliberately does not elaborate on what lest Malfoy mock him forever. “And then he reciprocated more than I thought.”

“You’re a player,” Malfoy accuses. “A heart stealing, cruel, careless player.”

Harry winces, but for once, he’s not angry at Malfoy’s goad, just a little bit sad. He shrugs. “I honestly didn’t think he’d fall for me.”

“How’d you end it?”

Ah. Harry should have predicted the question. He tucks his hands beneath his thighs and eyes Malfoy in the corner of his vision. “Um, well I never really...”

Malfoy gasps, dramatic but not entirely undeserved. “You _ghosted_ him?”

“Not so much _ghosted_ as _friends-with-benefits_ -ed him…”

“You kept using him for sex?” Malfoy yells, and Harry hopes none of the castle’s nearby windows are open. “Fucking Merlin, Potter, I thought you were supposed to be all noble and Gryffindor.”

“He was into it!” Harry protests. And he was still into it yesterday…

“He was likely holding out hope you’d ask him out for real.” Malfoy makes an odd groaning noise that Harry’s never heard before, in a million arguments. “Now I have to feel sorry for Cormac fucking McLaggen.”

“He’s cool.”

“So, you said.” Malfoy reaches up to the rail and pulls himself to his feet. “Alright, I’ll date your damaged goods.”

“I didn’t damage–”

“You are so oblivious to your effect on other people, Potter. Some might find that charming but I find it outrageously irresponsible.” Malfoy stares down at Harry for a moment, his chest heaving, before turning on the spot and leaving.

“Malfoy, wait, you arsehole,” Harry shouts, scrambling to his feet to chase after him. “I haven’t even told you about the date!”

* * *

On Saturday morning, Harry, while peacefully minding his own business and chowing down his breakfast in the Great Hall, is aggressively accosted by a levitating paper plane. He ignores it at first but then it starts pecking at his face unbearably and he has no choice but to open it.

It’s a sketch from Malfoy with an agreeably handsome Harry figure and an under-baked Malfoy stand-in with the speech bubble _We need to talk_. Without explanation to his friends, Harry hops up and follows the plane as it guides him from the Great Hall. Malfoy waits for him at the entrance, hidden behind an alcove. Harry stops in front of him, just out of sight from the Hall.

“Better talk fast, Malfoy, before someone sees us.”

“Will you meet me in Hogsmeade after my shift this afternoon?” He whispers, like he’s setting up a spy mission or booty call. Or both. A booty call for rival spies. Now that’s something Harry hasn’t experienced yet.

“Why?”

“I need to buy muggle clothes for the date tomorrow.”

Right. Of course Malfoy doesn’t own an outfit suitable for the date Harry planned with Cormac: a casual trip to a very muggle Cinema for a screening of _The Matrix_. Come to think of it, Harry’s never seen Malfoy outside his school uniform or a range of black robes that all look practically identical from a distance. A nice pair of jeans would suit him nicely.

“What do you need me for?”

Malfoy scrunches up his face as if this is obvious. “How do I know what fashionable muggle clothes look like?”

Somehow the thought of Malfoy accidentally buying an unflattering pair of jeans, or, worse, not buying jeans at all, is concerning to Harry so he finds himself agreeing to help, despite it really not being part of the original deal. It must be the leftover guilt from giving Cormac McLaggen a blowjob two days ago or something.

“What time do you finish?”

* * *

Shopping with Malfoy is tiresome, but not in the way Harry predicts. He imagines Malfoy as the type to try on every black garment in the most expensive store and then buy at least half of them. But they’ve already been to six stores, including Hogsmeade’s most prestigious clothing store _Merlin’s Tailor_ and Malfoy hasn’t tried on or bought a single thing. And it’s not like there hadn’t been anything muggle appropriate. All the Hogsmeade fashion stores have a healthy mix of both wizarding and muggle styles for the modern wizard, and Harry has pointed out more than a few black leather jackets and flare jeans. So, when Malfoy shakes his head and tries to leave the seventh store, Harry’s had enough. He shoves a black cardigan into Malfoy’s arms.

“Will you at least try something on?”

Malfoy checks the tag and then carefully hangs the cardigan back on the rack. “I’m not going to spend an entire week’s pay on some flimsy material, Potter. Whatever you might think of me, I do have some sense.”

Since when has Draco _-my-father-bought-the-whole-Slytherin-Quidditch-team-Nimbus-2001s-_ Malfoy cared about price tags?

“It’s not like you can’t afford it. You don’t even need to work. Didn’t the Wizengamot award you your family’s estate and fortune when your parents went to–” Harry stops abruptly and covers the end of his sentence with an unconvincing cough. “I mean, when they were convicted.”

“I can hear the word Azkaban without collapsing into hysteria.”

“Right, sorry. But don’t you have heaps of money?”

Despite his protests, Malfoy suddenly looks very interested in a bright yellow jumper with red spots, studying the material rather than meeting Harry’s eye. “No, actually, I spent it.”

“You spent it? What, all of it? The entire Malfoy fortune?”

Malfoy shrugs and holds the hideous jumper up to his chest as if he’s genuinely considering it. “I have lavish tastes.”

Harry eyes the jumper pointedly. “Really?”

Malfoy huffs and hooks the jumper’s hanger back on the display. “The money’s gone, Potter,” he says, pushing past Harry to the exit. “Get over it.”

“Fine, I’ll buy your clothes then,” Harry says hurriedly before they leave yet another store empty-handed. “Just try something on, for Christ’s sake.”

Malfoy carries onto the exit anyway, addressing Harry over his shoulder. “You will do no such thing. I’m perfectly capable of buying my own reasonably priced clothes.”

Now understanding the situation – well as much as anyone can understand anything going on in Draco Malfoy’s head – Harry drags Malfoy to his favourite store in Hogsmeade: the Op Shop. Malfoy eyes the shop window with something like curiosity laced with the obvious distaste of a man used to finer things. But he doesn’t object when they enter to the sound of a weak chime over the door or when Harry shoves him in a dressing room and throws in five different pairs of flare jeans, two black shirts and three black jackets that are practically identical except for the zip placements. Malfoy – the selfish prat – refuses to model any of the clothes for Harry, but he does agree to buy a full outfit plus a pair of old black combat boots.

Their excursion finally successful in the last twenty minutes of literally hours of searching, they start to wander back in the direction of Hogwarts, passing all the stores Malfoy rebuffed earlier. Right by _Merlin’s Tailor_ , there’s a pokey cosmetics store that Oliver Wood used to work at.

“Hang on,” Harry says. “I need to pick up some things real quick.”

He ducks into the store, narrowly squeezing past the stack of empty boxes someone’s left too close to the entrance. Malfoy follows, eyeing the boxes suspiciously. He clings to Harry’s side like a timid child as Harry scans the shelves.

“You wear make-up?” Malfoy whispers unnecessarily. The shop attendant must be in the backroom – watching muggle sports on the old tv box if they’re anything like Oliver – and there are no other customers.

“How else do you think I achieve this razor-sharp jawline?”

“A glamour?”

“Too unpredictable. Too much energy. But a contour set” – Harry picks up his usual brand from the shelf and holds it up for Malfoy’s inspection – “only 19.99 pounds and twenty minutes of my time in the morning.”

The contour set is clearly designed for white skin but Harry’s had reasonable success by mixing three of the “tan” colours and ignoring the rest. Usually he throws the half-finished sets out but the remaining shades would be a perfect fit for Malfoy. Perhaps they could share–

“You’re literally the most powerful wizard of our generation and you can’t hold a glamour?”

“I can,” Harry counters immediately, lest his magical aptitude be challenged. To prove the point, he pulls up a glamour that’s an exact replica of Malfoy’s face, only to drop it when the real Malfoy flinches. “But it’s exhausting. It drains you from the inside out. Make-up, on the other hand, just gives you a steady stream of acne. Although, that _could_ be the testosterone.”

If the testosterone _is_ to blame for the pesky pimples at his chin while simultaneously failing to provide adequate beard coverage, Harry’s exceedingly unimpressed. He’s not asking to challenge Dumbledore or anything, he just wants something more than sparse stubble. And, while he’s praying to the testosterone deities, some bushier eyebrows would be appreciated too. He picks up a new brow pencil liner and squeezes his way through a cramped aisle to the counter.

As his hand hovers over the bell to alert the shop attendant, Harry realises he’s missing something: his shadow. He places his items on the counter and returns to the back of the store to find Malfoy by the nail section, holding up a bottle of Slytherin green polish. Typical.

“I’m not sure if you’ve heard but there’s this thing called a colour wheel. Green and black are not your only options.”

Malfoy places the polish back on the shelf gently, his fingers lingering. “It hardly matters. I don’t wear nail polish.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

Harry does know, of course. Two years ago, an image of Harry in this very cosmetics store circulated in The Daily Prophet as if it were a salacious scandal and not just, you know, a dude buying make-up to make his jaw sharp AF. Hermione’s letter to the editor had been particularly scathing – _I understand there’s not much for you to report on lately given your prerogative to deny the blatant return of Lord Voldemort but_ …

Still, that hadn’t stopped Harry and it shouldn’t stop Malfoy either. “Heaps of guys wear nail polish.”

Malfoy flicks his eyes to the ceiling petulantly and folds his arms across his chest. “Lucky them.”

Harry tries again, recycling Hermione’s words from years ago. “If you want to wear it, then you should wear it.”

Malfoy releases one of his infamous dramatic sighs. “You don’t get it. You’re all masculine and straight passing.”

“Excuse me?” No one in the history of his life has ever called Harry ‘masculine’ or ‘straight passing’, especially not when he’s been in the middle of purchasing a contour kit and brow liner. 

“But look at me,” Malfoy continues, his nose wrinkled, “people see me as this stereotypically feminine gay guy. Which is bearable, when they don’t know about me, but if they did, the feminine parts wouldn’t be so ‘gay’ anymore, they’d just be feminine.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means a cis gay man can paint his nails, and no one bats an eyelid. But I paint my nails one time and suddenly my mother asks me if I’m sure I’m trans. Yes, actually, I can be a trans man without renouncing everything supposedly feminine. Am I supposed to go around flexing my muscles and watching muggle sports and having pissing contests behind pubs? Does my lack of interest in piss make me less trans?”

“That’s a hard one, let me think.” Harry means to be supportive, he does, but serious conversations make him silly, and Malfoy gives him way too much fodder to work with. “Maybe if you said piss one more time.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “So you understand I can’t wear nail polish.”

“You literally said it doesn’t make you less of a man.”

“Potter, keep up. _I_ know that but nobody else in this idiotic binary world does. You might be so sure of yourself you can simply waltz into a cosmetic store without blinking, but other people actually have insecurities and I, for one, happen to care what people think of me.”

At this point, the shop attendant, likely roused from their muggle tv by the growing argument, makes an appearance, hovering awkwardly at the counter across the other side of the shop. Harry shoots them a polite smile and turns back to Malfoy. He lowers his voice.

“You think I’m not insecure? You think it doesn’t bother me reading the crap they write in The Daily Prophet about me every single day? You think I don’t want to burn every _A History of Magic_ book in the library because they still reference ‘the girl who lived’?”

Malfoy is quiet for a moment, blinking down at Harry with undisguised surprise. “But you act so confident.”

“I think you of all people should be able to recognise a defence mechanism.”

Malfoy’s lip twitches and he drops his gaze. Harry seizes the opportunity and slyly slips a bottle of green nail polish into his hand. The argument may have fizzled out, but Harry hasn’t given up. He gestures for Malfoy to leave ahead of him and makes his way up to the counter alone.

The shop attendant is kind and un-intrusive, bagging Harry’s purchases with polite indifference and engaging in the obligatory small talk. “What’s the score?” Harry asks as he’s leaving, just to test his theory.

Their face drops into a friendly scowl. “Nil all.”

Malfoy waits for Harry right outside, hands in his pockets. “It’s late, we should–”

“Do triple shots at The Three Broomsticks?”

“Get dinner.”

As if it can hear Malfoy’s offer, Harry’s stomach growls in acceptance. 

* * *

Harry opens the door to his dorm carefully to avoid waking Ron; he’d rather collapse into bed without twenty questions. But of course, because fate is cruel, when he opens the door – and it doesn’t even creak once – he finds Ron wide awake and playing exploding solitaire in bed. Except he’s not in his own bed, but Harry’s. Ignoring this as best as he can, Harry throws off his glasses, rubs his eyes, and flops into Ron’s bed instead. The blankets smell like The Burrow – a soft grassy musk – which isn’t altogether discomforting so Harry’s already drifting into sleep when Ron walks over.

“Find anywhere new?”

Harry rolls away from the voice. “What?”

“I just figure wandering Hogwarts at night,” Ron says, padding over to the other side of the bed, “there must be more we haven’t discovered yet.”

Harry rolls back the other way. “Nothing new,” he mumbles. He can hardly explain where he actually was all night – first at Pumpkin Garden, then at The Three Broomsticks, then at The Hog’s Head, and then in the Shrieking Shack because Malfoy insisted it was still haunted and Harry had to prove his archrival wrong.

“What about _someone_ new?”

“No one new,” Harry says, louder. He’s losing his grasp on sleep; it slips away from him faster the more he tries to hold onto it. He gives in and opens his eyes.

“Because if you’re into Malfoy, you know that Hermione and I would be cool–”

Harry sits up and turns to face Ron. “Are you secretly friends with him too?”

His voice must reveal his irritation because Ron takes a step back. “No, I hardly know the bloke. I’m just saying if you want to talk–”

“I want to _sleep_.” Not that he’ll be able to now.

“But tomorrow, or the next day, or–”

Harry drops back down and pulls Ron’s covers over his head. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Whenever you’re ready, mate.”

Harry listens as Ron tiptoes back across the room and then the soft creak as he climbs into Harry’s bed. Finally, some peace and–

“Don’t forget to take your binder off.”

* * *

Malfoy drops his glamour to reveal the muggle clothes underneath as he and Harry duck into a Hogsmeade ally. And (oh fuck!) he looks cool. Not even Theodore Nott level cool but beyond. Like undeniably, incredibly, jaw-droppingly cool. In fact, Malfoy should never be allowed to wear anything other than black leather jackets again. Somehow, even his slicked back hair manages to look appealing when paired with this outfit. Then, when Malfoy turns around to check their surroundings, Harry properly notices the pièce de résistance: those jeans! Or, rather, Malfoy’s arse in those jeans. _Holy wow fuck._ He quickly averts his eyes as Malfoy twists back but he’s gotten more than enough of an eyeful already.

“Shall we, er, go then,” Harry says, holding out an arm, and determinedly not thinking about the delicious image forever burned into his retinas.

Malfoy eyes trail down Harry’s arm to glare at his freshly painted nails, Slytherin green of course. Harry wiggles them and Malfoy’s eyebrows pucker but the stubborn arse – no, stubborn prat! Not arse. Don’t think about arse – doesn’t comment, taking Harry’s wrist in his with two fingers. His grip is so light it could barely be classified as touching, but it’ll do all the same so Harry closes his eyes. The apparation jerks them both violently in no particular direction as if ripping them from the universe, then breaks them into infinite pieces and rearranges them in another alley behind the Islington Cinema, just outside of London.

Malfoy wrenches his hand back and brushes the inter-space dust from his shoulders. “At least _pretend_ to use your wand.”

Harry pulls his wand from his pocket and waves it meekly. “Abracadabra?”

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy turns away – Harry does NOT look down – and strides out into the street. He’s acting particularly grumpy today, and that’s saying something for Malfoy. Harry swaps his wand for his Invisibility Cloak and follows, replaying the events from last night in his head.

For once, (as far as he knows) he hadn’t done anything to make Malfoy mad and vice versa. There’d been competitive banter about the Shrieking Shak but if anything, it had been friendly and, if it were anyone else, it would have appeared almost flirtatious. Almost. But since this was Malfoy, at best the banter had been teetering on the edge of civility with respectful undercurrents of archrivalry. In short, there’s no reason for Malfoy to have such an attitude today.

Harry catches up to Malfoy in the Cinema foyer by a giant _The Matrix_ poster. His eyes rake over it several times before he shoots a tortured look over his shoulder, almost perfectly picking Harry’s position. “I can’t believe I swapped my shifts for this.”

Harry tugs on the cloak to make sure it’s fully covering his shoes. “Keep an open mind and–”

“Don’t break McLaggen’s heart?” Malfoy suggests. “Never fear, I’ve learned from the best.”

Ouch. Harry’s too impressed by the sass to be properly wounded but still–

“Malfoy?” Cormac’s sweet rounded voice fills the foyer. “Who are you talking to?”

Harry side steps out of Cormac’s approach and saddles up next to Malfoy. “Say you were practising your pick-up lines,” he whispers.

“I’m not going to–” Malfoy starts to mutter until Cormac hits him with a signature dazzling smile. “I was practicing my pick-up lines.”

That smile, all perfect teeth (straighter than anyone on this date) and impossibly large dimples, can make men, women and non-binary folk weak at the knees. Its power is diluted for Harry after seeing it so many times, but Malfoy’s not so fortunate. Harry places a hand gently on his back for support.

“Can’t wait to hear them.” Cormac’s eyes flick over Malfoy’s form appreciatively. “Do you want to get the tickets and I’ll get the sustenance?”

Malfoy nods mutely, sagging back into Harry’s hand. Cormac walks past them to the snack bar and Harry’s eyes follow to take him in properly. He’s wearing a rose gold bomber jacket for some sporting team Harry doesn’t recognise and black jeans tighter than Malfoy’s. He’s always been comfortable in muggle attire.

“You made me look like a fool,” Malfoy hisses, again picking Harry’s invisible placement concerningly easily.

“He’s into you!” Harry points out, just as Cormac glances back in their direction.

Malfoy looks over his shoulder and must catch, as Harry does, when Cormac’s wandering eyes rake over his arse. No, not rake, because that implies movement. More accurately, his eyes land and remain steadfastly only on Malfoy’s arse. Malfoy turns back to Harry, his cheeks a sweet pink. “No, he’s into my _arse_!” he squeaks.

“So?”

Malfoy blinks and a slow grin appears at the corners of his mouth. “He’s into my arse,” he repeats with innocent wonder. “That’s a first.”

Harry snorts. “Unlikely.”

Malfoy raises his eyebrows and Harry coughs back the splutter in his throat. He proceeds to damage control. “Obviously it’s too skinny for my taste but, you know, it’s not totally without merit. Someone else is bound to have noticed. Not me. Someone else.”

“Thanks, Potter. Really, thank you ever so much for being the world’s biggest arse.”

Harry almost laughs aloud at how easy Malfoy makes it for him. “I think you’ll find–”

Malfoy holds up a finger. “Don’t you dare try and be clever now.”

“Stop talking to yourself, people are starting to stare.”

Malfoy scowls and drops his hand. He lets Harry nudge him along to the ticket counter, talk him through the purchase, and sneak muggle money into his hands to pay the attendant.

“How much was that?” he asks as soon as they walk away with the tickets.

“Barely a sickle,” Harry lies.

Cormac re-joins them with one large popcorn, one large fizzy drink and one huge smile. “I hope you don’t mind sharing,” he says with a disarming wink.

Holding back a giggle, Harry quickly flicks his eyes to Malfoy to watch his reaction, but Malfoy is composed as ever.

“Not at all,” he says.

Somehow, Cormac grins wider. “I thought so.” He transfers the popcorn to his chest and hooks one arm around Malfoy’s, leading him into the theatre.

“What does that mean?” Malfoy whispers from the corner of his mouth away from Cormac. “Potter, Potter, what does that mean? Potter?”

Harry lets him sweat, but only because he has no idea how to explain to Malfoy that Cormac’s alluding to a threesome, and even less idea how to explain he’s pretty sure Cormac’s talking about Harry…and the idea’s not particularly unwelcome. Malfoy’s better off staying confused. 

The cinema’s busy but not overcrowded, leaving Harry space to take up the right chair beside Malfoy and effectively sandwich him. However, even that isn’t close enough when Cormac is whispering things – probably filthy things – in Malfoy’s ear. Harry leans across to hear better but Malfoy pushes him back with a hard shove in the chest that Cormac misses. Surely that’s not in the spirit of the deal? All Harry gets out of these dates is eavesdropping and if he can’t even do that, then what’s the point? Checking out Malfoy’s arse?

The lights dim signalling the movie’s imminent start and Malfoy jerks upright, reaching out a hand to– to–Harry. He grips Harry’s forearm and holds it tight. “What’s happening?”

Before Harry can whisper words of comfort, Cormac interrupts. “It’s just so we can see the movie better, and you have an excuse to hold my hand.”

At the suggestion, Malfoy drops Harry’s arm and leans back into Cormac, holding his hand instead. Which is good. Because they’re on a date. And that’s what dates do. If Harry feels weird about it, that’s only because he’s trapped here in the dark as a third wheel. That’s all.

The curtains at the forefront of the theatre fall back to reveal the screen and Malfoy’s eyes go big in its light, fear replaced with wonder. Harry stares for longer than he should before settling back into his seat. He watches the movie with his left arm tightly at his side, ignoring the arm rest in case Malfoy wants to use it.

Except his arm is getting cramped now and he needs to stretch it out. Since Harry’s generously reserving the arm rest for him, then surely Malfoy won’t mind if Harry uses the back of his chair instead? Harry stretches his left arm up and then over the chair back, careful not to jostle Malfoy. He wouldn’t want anyone to read into the action and make a big deal out of Harry just trying to get comfortable. And sweet relief, this is much better. Harry relaxes and returns his focus to the movie. He doesn’t get out into the muggle world much and it is a treat to experience small luxuries like cinema that still somehow defy wizarding sensibilities. He hopes Malfoy is appropriately impressed.

Harry should see it coming earlier. He _knows_ Cormac. But he’s still taken by surprise when halfway through the movie Cormac sweeps in with the transparent yawn-and-stretch manoeuvre to get his arm around Malfoy. Harry extracts his unassuming arm from the back of the chair as Cormac’s presumptuous one settles in front of it, a greedy hand resting on Malfoy’s shoulder. Then, despite theatre etiquette, the filthy whispers start up again. Harry crosses his arms and pouts for the rest of the movie.

When it’s finally all over and they’re exiting the theatre, Harry trailing behind like a lost puppy, Cormac stops abruptly, takes hold of Malfoy’s hand again and kisses the back of it. Provocatively. Inappropriately. Rudely. There are people watching. Harry is watching!

With only a couple of suggestive prods in Malfoy’s back from Harry, the couple keep moving, stopping again on the street outside the cinemas. Cormac does the hand kiss a second time and Harry can’t read the expression on Malfoy’s face. Is he enjoying it? Is he hating it? Would he rather it were someone else?

“Will I see you again?” Malfoy asks, his voice more husk than sound. He _is_ enjoying it. 

Cormac winks and answers in true non-committal fuckboy style: “Maybe.”

Malfoy is obviously not fluent in this style because his eyebrows furrow. “Did you not have a nice time?”

“With a date as pretty as you, how could I not?”

Harry winces at Cormac’s word choice and recognises the subtle tightening in Malfoy’s jaw. “So, I’ll see you again?” He asks, but this time his voice is clear and composed.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yes,” Malfoy drawls, slow and pointed. “That’s why I’m asking. Or would you prefer I have Potter schedule it with you again?”

Cormac chuckles and his dazzling smile reappears, all charm. “Whatever you like, sweetheart.” He kisses Malfoy’s hand for the third (THIRD!) time and nods politely in farewell, before disappearing down the street.

Malfoy watches him go and sighs. “No wonder you were able to use him as your fuck buddy,” he says as Harry removes his Invisibility Cloak. “He’s all arrogance when it comes to the physical stuff but he’s too much of a coward to actually discuss his feelings. Oh yes, he can slump an arm behind me – which was incredibly uncomfortable by the way – but heaven forbid he admit any genuine interest. Meanwhile, I’m curving my back uncomfortably the entire movie because I’m also too much of a coward to tell him to budge his brick of an arm. Honestly, I’d have much preferred if you’d just kept yours there.”

Panic. Panic. Harry clears his throat, thinks through his excuse. He knew Malfoy would make a big deal about it. And really, he didn’t even touch Malfoy so how can he even _know_? “I didn’t–”

“See, now my neck is fucked,” Malfoy continues as if Harry isn’t obviously freaking out. “Potentially irrevocably,” he adds dramatically.

Harry watches as Malfoy rubs the back of his neck. “Do you want me to massage it for you?” he asks before he thinks the offer through. This is Draco Malfoy, his archrival. Why does he have to keep reminding himself?

Malfoy stares at Harry in confusion before irritation replaces it. He ignores the question completely. “I want someone emotionally mature enough to know what he wants, and brave enough to go out and get it.”

“Okay...”

“Add it to the list. Brave. Not arrogant, not chivalrous and not forward, but brave.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I get it, Malfoy.”

“No, you don’t.” Malfoy shakes his head far too patronisingly for Harry’s liking and then disapparates. Just disapparates, as if they’re not in the middle of a busy muggle street, as if they didn’t arrive together. Not that they’d explicitly planned to leave together but it was implied. It would have been common courtesy.

Harry, because he’s not a dramatic arsehole, completes the short walk to the alleyway behind the theatre before he follows suit. Still, when he reaches Hogsmeade, Malfoy’s nowhere to be seen. Something foreign twists in Harry’s chest. Fraternising with his archrival is becoming…complicated.


	5. Dating Neville Longbottom

“Bloody hell.”

Harry continues devouring his scrambled eggs.

“Bloody hell,” Ron repeats, louder.

Harry ignores this too, as well as the subsequent scuffle across the table: whispers, ripping paper, the clang of dropped cutlery. Finally, Hermione says in a hushed but audible voice, “He doesn’t need to know.”

Harry jerks his head up. “What?”

With a wave of her wand, Hermione vanishes ink-stained parchment paper from the table. She unrolls a new piece from her satchel and prepares her quill, focused so intently on the task, she never once looks Harry’s way.

Ron, meanwhile, chucks the latest Daily Prophet to Harry, already folded over to page four. “I think it looks brilliant, by the way.”

The words don’t make sense until Harry reads the article. One day wearing nail polish and Harry’s already attracted an opinion piece by Joanne K.R. on the dangers of transitioning too early. Despite her disregard for trans people displaying ‘stereotypical’ behaviours of their gender identity, apparently she also has a lot to say about trans children displaying behaviours associated with their assigned gender too, as if this makes them not really trans. Almost, as if her contradictory arguments offer no critical insight of gender at all and are merely tools to hide her bigotry.

Harry tears out the offending page, scrunches it into a ball and throws it into Ron’s cereal. The newspaper is magically protected against moisture but it’s satisfying to see it floating beside Ron’s sugar puffs all the same.

“Fifty points to Gryffindor,” Ron comments as he places the bowl aside. He’s got another two already lined up with cornflakes and golden grahams respectively anyway.

Harry assesses his nails, still green from yesterday but already starting to chip. (Surely some wizard somewhere has invented an anti-chipping spell by now...) He hopes Malfoy hasn’t seen the article yet. He’d go over to the Slytherin table right now if he didn’t know it would just make Malfoy furious. This whole secretive thing is getting out of hand.

“Hermione,” Ron says, “do you have any nail polish on you?”

The furious scratching of Hermione’s quill ceases and a heavy thud sends Harry’s unused knife flying from the table. He looks up to see Hermione digging deep inside her satchel, resulting in further thuds and crashes too loud for the standard sized bag. “I hope you didn’t just ask me because I’m a girl,” she admonishes while she digs, “because then you’d be missing the point. Anyone can wear or not wear nail polish.”

“Here you are, Ronald,” Luna Lovegood interrupts out of nowhere, leaning over Harry to present Ron with a bottle of iridescent silver nail polish. “This one suits your personality.”

She straightens and swivels to face Harry, smiling in her gentle way. She’s wearing the Harry Potter chocolate frog earrings again but the duplicate Harrys have ducked out of frame on both sides. “I’m writing a rebuttal piece for The Quibbler, Harry. If you’re open to it, I’d love your feedback before it goes to print.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

Luna twirls on the spots and departs to the Ravenclaw table, her long blonde hair swaying behind her. Harry turns back to Ron who has already applied a heavy coat of the polish to one hand with little discretion between his nails and the surrounding skin.

“I can never tell if she secretly hates me or not but she’s right,” he says, wiggling his fingers. “I look wicked!”

“She likes you fine,” Hermione says, taking the bottle to polish Ron’s other hand. “It’s me she–”

Harry zones out of the conversation. If Malfoy sees Ron’s nails, he’s definitely going to know something’s up. Harry could ambush him after breakfast and pull him in another closet for a friendly heads-up. It’s the least archrivals with common interests can do for each other, right? Even if just the thought of an enclosed space makes Harry perspire slightly more than usual.

A tap on Harry’s shoulder has him twisting in his seat to face the top of Anthony Goldstein’s head. Anthony straightens up after discreetly dropping something heavy in Harry’s lap. A Gameboy. “You didn’t get it from me,” he whispers and walks off backward, shooting Harry a round of finger guns. He’s wearing vibrant purple nail polish.

If Anthony’s already wearing nail polish, then it’s certain Terry is as well, and who knows who else. It’s only a matter of time before Malfoy finds out…Harry will have to move fast.

* * *

  
The closet ambush is unsuccessful. It’s actually incredibly hard to pick a moving target from a corridor discreetly with the abysmal visual provided from inside a closet. Especially when claustrophobic. He’s no idea how Malfoy managed it in the first place. Perhaps having a closeted identity works in Malfoy’s favour in that instance. Haha. Harry gives up after accidently tripping a tall first year with strawberry blonde hair. Not even _close._

Once he gives up and comes out of the closet (pun fully intended), he realises it’s not just Ron and Anthony sporting painted nails, but a not insignificant portion of the eighth year. There’s no way Malfoy doesn’t know what’s going on by this stage. Harry is already too late. 

* * *

By Wednesday, at least half the male population of Hogwarts are wearing nail polish, in varying states of accuracy. Not that Harry can judge, his nails are chipped down to the cuticles. He’ll have to reapply during DADA class which, against all his better judgement, he’s making an appearance in today. At least, he’s working up to it; there’s still the option to walk straight past the classroom door and make the round trip back to his dorm…like he did last week. He’ll have to decide soon because he’s almost there, jumping over the last trick stair to the third floor– 

“Harry! Wait up Harry!”

Turning around, Harry spots Neville at the base of the staircase dashing to catch up with long spindly legs. He grasps the bannister and heaves himself up the final few stairs to reach Harry. His nails shine with fresh crimson nail polish.

“Red suits you,” Harry comments.

“That’s what the Sorting Hat said,” Neville says breathlessly.

Harry waits for him to recover before they carry on to class together, Neville’s face still flushed. Stretched out by yet another growth spurt, he’s all bone and no muscle, and he hunches at both his knees and shoulders to address Harry as they walk.

“Hey, are you alright with this nail polish thing? You know everyone’s doing it to support you, right? I didn’t want you to think it was mocking or anything.”

“I’m fine, Neville.”

They enter the classroom and Harry tries not to wither under Professor Berrycloth’s stare. Out of all the professors, she’s the one who takes Harry’s absences the most seriously. She’s lectured him about responsibility and integrity too many times to remember, but she’s still given him Os for the last two assignments he hasn’t handed in so she’s also a hypocrite. 

“Hey, I’m replanting a carnivorous nepenthe plant this weekend. If anyone’s causing you trouble, let’s just say I can get rid of the evidence,” Neville says, immediately chuckling at his joke.

“No, th–” Harry starts automatically but then an idea comes to him and he can’t stop the name before it springs out of his mouth: “Draco Malfoy!”

“Ha, sure,” Neville says as he ducks his head to avoid the hanging light in the aisle. “Send him my way and I’ll take care of it.”

Harry tugs at his sleeve, jerking him from the aisle into the back row instead. “Sit with me.”

Neville shrugs and obeys, dropping his books by Harry’s and taking a seat. “You know I was joking right? I’m not going to murder anyone.”

“I know, Neville.” Harry looks around making sure no one is listening. Malfoy hasn’t arrived yet. He drops his voice to a whisper anyway. “Would you be interested in dating Draco Malfoy?”

Neville chuckles, then stops when Harry doesn’t join in. His face twists between confusion and horror before settling on apprehension. “I think I’ll take the murder option actually.”

“He’s changed.”

“Good for him,” Neville says just as Malfoy enters the classroom, books held low at his hips, eyes surveying the back row. “Doesn’t make him good for me.”

“Right,” Harry says, locking eyes with Malfoy. “Yeah, never mind.”

Malfoy scowls and drops into the only seat left, conveniently placed in the second row from the back, almost directly in front of Harry. Hermione and Ron sit together at the front, appearing not to notice Harry’s rare attendance.

Professor Berrycloth starts the class with a pointed thank you for everyone’s commitment to their NEWT level studies which can only by directed at Harry. He keeps his face blank when her gaze passes over him to avoid giving her any satisfaction. He’s not the one giving students fraudulent results. When she turns to the blackboard to write up the latest theory, Neville leans into Harry.

“Why are you asking about Malfoy?” he whispers.

Harry watches Malfoy closely for any sign he’s eavesdropping but his platinum head remains still. “I promised to help him find a date.”

“Has he got something over you? Is he blackmailing you?”

“No, he– well, I can’t say but it’s fine. No blackmail.”

“I’ll do it,” Neville announces, but he doesn’t look excited like all Malfoy’s previous dating prospects, he looks resigned, like he’s steeling himself for the experience. It’s not exactly romantic.

“There’s nothing sinister involved,” Harry says.

Neville sits back and crosses his arms, his eyes staring straight ahead, boring into the back of poor Malfoy’s head. “Then there’s no harm in me going on the date, right?”

“Right,” Harry acquiesces. He wonders if setting Malfoy up with a date who may or may not want to kill him is in the spirit of their agreement. Then again, Malfoy didn’t specify ‘no murderous intent.’ All he wanted was someone brave and he can’t deny that Neville Longbottom fits the brief. At the very least, it will make for a one-of-a-kind date.

* * *

“I’m not sure if anyone ever advised you, Potter, but there’s more than one class in a day. Usually three, in fact.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Harry rolls over in his bed to glare at Malfoy for interrupting his nap. However, he’s not so sure he’s successful in conveying his irritation because he’s also forced to squint without his glasses. He stretches out a hand and fumbles around on his bedside table as the Malfoy blur gets closer.

“I have a study period,” the blur says.

“And how do you know I don’t?”

Malfoy’s hands approach Harry’s face and Harry knows he should flinch or jerk away – this is the guy who broke his nose only two years ago – but he’s frozen in place, helpless as those hands brush past his face and over his ears and…put his glasses on for him. _Oh. That’s all._

Harry blinks up at Malfoy, sharp as ever. Except for the kink in his usually sleek hair as if he’s run his hand through it a little too roughly.

“You take History of Magic classes now,” Malfoy says slowly, as if Harry is a small child. “I switched out to Muggle Studies at the start of the year.”

“Well, maybe the schedule has changed since then. Maybe I switched to another class. Maybe– yeah, fine you win. Whatever, Malfoy.” Harry sits up properly, then crosses his arms over his chest when he remembers he’s not wearing a binder. “What do you want?”

“I thought–” Malfoy clears his throat and takes a step back, resting against Ron’s bed post. “I was simply curious to see if you’d considered my latest request. For a date. With–”

“Someone brave,” Harry finishes. “Yeah I’ve got it sorted.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows shoot up. “You have?”

“Yeah, I found you someone brave. One of the bravest people I know, actually.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows plummet back down. He takes an audible breath before asking, “Who?”

“Neville–”

“Longbottom!?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry says through a yawn. He forgets to cover his mouth until the last second, but Malfoy doesn’t appear to notice.

“What’s so brave about Longbottom?”

“He led Dumbledore’s Army last year, he killed Nagini, he stood up to Voldemort. How much braver can you get?”

Malfoy mutters something to the ground that sounds like “talking to your own breath…”

“What was that?”

Malfoy’s head snaps up, his cheeks a delicious red. “I said, isn’t Neville a pureblood? I definitely told you no purebloods.”

“Yes, but he’s not a _pure_ blood,” Harry explains. He doesn’t bother to elaborate because his meaning is obvious.

“That’s makes absolutely no sense, Potter.”

Or perhaps not.

“I _mean_ , you didn’t want to date purebloods who are cowardly supremacists. I assumed you weren’t being discriminatory against all purebloods.”

“For all I know, Longbottom is–”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We both know he’s not like that. Plus he’s a Gryffindor, plus he’s not a snob, plus he’s brave. Trust me, he’s your dream guy.”

Malfoy snorts. “Longbottom is not my dream guy. He’s not even close to my dream guy. And the fact that you think he is, is actually insulting to my character. No, it’s past that, it’s disrespectful.”

Harry rolls his eyes. Sparring with Malfoy isn’t as fun post-nap when he doesn’t have the brain power or energy to be witty. “I’m the one doing you a favour here, so I don’t know why you get to act all high and mighty.”

“You’re right,” Malfoy says, softening immediately. Which is new. “I apologise. I’ll be civil.”

Hmmm. Well that’s no fun either. “I didn’t say be boring about it.”

Malfoy cocks his head, the hint of a smirk on his lips. “How would you like me to behave then, Potter?”

“You know,” Harry says, mostly to buy time as he tries to put what they are together in words. “Like an archrival with a temporary truce.”

“We’re still archrivals?”

“Well, yeah. How else do you think of me?”

Malfoy thinks about it for a long time, his face annoying blank. Finally, he says in his lazy drawl, “It’s more that I don’t think of you at all.”

Ouch. Harry adjusts his glasses to hide his face, to avoid giving any sign of hurt. “That’s better,” he lies.

“When did you date Longbottom?” Malfoy asks, all business again.

“Fifth year, after Cho, before Cormac.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen. “You dated Cho Chang!”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Cho Chang of the Tutshill Tornados?” Malfoy asks. He’s buzzing, his voice rushed. “The same Cho Chang who hasn’t lost a single snitch since she was drafted as Seeker immediately out of school?”

“Yeah. How many ‘Cho Chang’s do you know?”

Malfoy wilts against the bedpost, settling down on the edge of Ron’s bed. “You dated Cho Chang,” he whispers reverently. Then his head snaps up. “Why did she break up with you?”

“What? Why couldn’t I have broken up with her?”

“Why would anybody break up with Cho Chang?”

“What do you even know about it? You’re gay.”

Malfoy’s shoots Harry a hard look. “She’s caught _every_ single snitch, Potter, in _every_ single game she’s competed in professionally. She’s my hero. If you broke up with her, then you’re more of an idiot than you look.”

He’s serious. He’s actually serious. How did this conversation come to fighting about Harry’s first girlfriend? He’s had more partners than he can count on his hands since. “Then I’m an idiot,” he says, giving in to Malfoy’s weird fixation. “I had more important things on my mind in fifth year.”

Malfoy makes a face. “Like dating Longbottom?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“How did you go from _Cho Chang_ to _Neville Longbottom_?” Malfoy asks, flicking between tones of awe and distaste.

The tone irritates Harry. He sits up a little straighter. “While you were still playing miniature Death Eater, Neville was leading a rebellion at Hogwarts. Then, while you were busy saving your own skin running back to your parents, he destroyed Voldemort’s last horcrux. You have no right to criticise him. You asked for someone brave, you got it. Do you want to date him or not?” 

Malfoy stares back at Harry for a long moment, his face so unguarded and vulnerable for once Harry almost feels guilty. Malfoy drops his head. “I’ll date him,” he says quietly to his lap.

Harry’s tempted to apologise but it’s Malfoy, so he doesn’t. “Great,” he says instead, “can I go back to sleep now?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before settling back into bed and rolling over. It’s several long torturous minutes until he hears Malfoy stand up and leave.

* * *

Harry wakes up in the late afternoon, groggy and completely unrested. Naps always seem like a better idea than they actually are. His stomach is unsettled too, tight and constricted, almost like cramps except he’s not due for his period for at least another two weeks, not that it ever comes on time anymore anyway. With nothing else to blame, he places the feeling. Guilt. Malfoy was a dick about Neville and somehow Harry’s the one feeling guilty for calling him out. Fan-bloody-tastic.

The least he can do is give his archrival some more pointers before the next date. So, he redresses and touches up his jawline before covering himself in the Invisibility Cloak and making his way to Malfoy’s dorm. It’s still before curfew but he’s not in the mood to talk to anyone else on the way. The cloak just makes things simpler.

His intention isn’t to _spy_ but when he reaches the East wing corridor, Malfoy’s there with his friends, just entering, and he can’t resist slipping in behind Zabini before the door closes. As soon as it slams shut, he regrets it; it only adds to the guilt pooling in his gut. But he can’t exactly escape now so he stands awkwardly at the entrance.

“…wearing that for?” Malfoy is asking. He drops back onto his bed in a casual familiar way he never does around Harry. Parkinson joins him.

Zabini leans on the bedpost and holds up his hands. “Pansy forced me.”

“And they look amazing so you’re welcome,” Parkinson pipes up.

Harry quietly treads into the room, approaching the trio, so he can see what Zabini is holding up. When he rounds the side of the bed by Malfoy, he can see each of Zabini’s nails is painted in a different shade of the rainbow.

“Do they make me look…” Zabini trails off, glancing sharply at Malfoy. He shrugs meekly. “You know, because of the rainbow.”

Parkinson groans. “They look great but not nearly enough to make up for the shit that comes out when you open your mouth.”

“She’s right,” Malfoy agrees, but he’s grinning at the ceiling. “I would never date you.”

“Hey, why not?”

Parkinson sits up and stares Zabini down. Where Malfoy’s stares are ice cold, hers are fire. Different shit, equally terrifying. “So, you don’t want to look gay, but you still want gay guys to be interested in you? That’s _fucked up_ , Blaise.”

“Yeah, true. Sorry, Draco,” Zabini says softly. Then, he clears his throat and puffs out his chest. “But I am objectively hot, right?”

Parkinson runs both hands through her hair and flops back down by Malfoy. “Oh my gosh, you are such a himbo!”

Zabini, somehow pleased by this assessment, grins. “Thanks.”

“Speaking of himbos…”

Malfoy groans. “You’re the only one bringing up himbos, Pansy.”

Parkinson rolls over to face him, cocking her elbow and resting her head on her fist. “What’s going on with you and the chosen one?”

Harry’s too excited by the prospect of hearing the answer to be offended at his implied himbo status. He’ll circle back to it later. For now, he stares intently at Malfoy, watching his reaction.

Malfoy appears to be doing the same thing to the ceiling. “Nothing,” he says, to Harry’s disappointment.

Zabini switches bedposts, swinging dangerously close to Harry. “Daphne said she saw you both at Pumpkin Garden last Saturday.”

Harry doesn’t recall seeing Greengrass, and he’s sure if Malfoy did, he’d have been pushed under the table or forced to don his Invisibility Cloak. He wonders if Greengrass was there for the arm wrestle or when Harry challenged Malfoy to chug a butterbeer in less than thirty seconds. (Malfoy politely declined.)

“I’m helping him out with something,” Malfoy lies. They really need to come up with a cover story already.

Parkinson’s eyes light up. “Helping him out of his pants?”

Malfoy sits up. “No! Of course not!”

“Relax, Draco, I know you’re a prude, but Potter…he’s experienced.”

“You would know,” Malfoy says petulantly. It makes Harry smile.

“He told you?”

Harry’s smile drops. Shit. Was he not supposed to have said anything? Despite having been involved in a number of casual hook-ups over the past couple of years, he’s still not sure of the proper etiquette.

“Told him what?” Zabini asks. “Oh,” he adds a second later, no answer required. Harry’s not sure if it’s his reputation or Parkinson’s that makes the answer obvious.

“Did he say it was good?” Parkinson asks, so at least she’s not upset. “I tried out this new thing with my tongue and I’m not sure if–”

Malfoy throws his hands up in the air. “I don’t recall asking for details!”

(For the record, Parkinson’s new tongue thing was exceptionally good.)

“But now that you’re so chummy with him, do you mind asking for some feedback next time you–”

“Pansy! I’m not _chummy_ with Harry Potter. We are the opposite of chummy. We are chummy-less. We are un-chummy. We are the antithesis to chummy!”

Harry bites down on his cloak. There’s something about the word ‘chummy’ from Malfoy’s posh lips that is incredibly silly and entertaining. 

“Shame. I think you’d LOVE the way he–”

“No details! Please.”

“Speak for yourself,” Zabini says (and Harry agrees), “I want to know everything.”

Parkinson winks at him. “Later,” she promises, then turns back on Malfoy. “You know,” she says slyly, “we wouldn’t blame you if you liked Potter…”

There’s the barest hint of a smile at Malfoy’s lips that Harry never would have recognised prior to spending so much time with him, but it’s there and he’s opening his mouth to say something and Harry automatically leans in closer, not wanting to miss a second of it when–

Malfoy’s face changes, any trace of smile gone. He transitions into a yawn that isn’t fooling anyone. “I suddenly realised how tired I am,” he says. “Can we do this another night?”

Parkinson makes a face but immediately jumps up. “Fine, come on, Blaise. I'll tell you all the details Malfoy’s too prudish for.”

Harry, realising his opportunity, tries to sneak out behind them but Parkinson closes the door too quick. It slams in his face. He turns back around to find Malfoy by the coffee table pouring two cups of tea. He is briefly relieved that Malfoy’s expecting another guest and he’ll have another opportunity to sneak out before curfew. That is, until Malfoy turns around and stares dead at Harry, holding out a teacup.

_Fuck._

Harry removes the Invisibility Cloak. He smiles meekly as he tries to assess how much trouble he’s in by the arch of Malfoy’s brow. Said brow is deathly still.

_Fuck._

“I don’t want you following me in your cloak.”’

_Fuck._

“I thought that was the whole agreement.”

Malfoy’s brow doesn’t appear to appreciate the weak attempt at a jest.

“You know very well that only applies when I’m on a date, Potter, not when I’m having private conversations with my friends in my own dorm.”

Harry eyes the cup of tea in Malfoy’s outstretched hand. Surely Malfoy wouldn’t offer Harry a beverage if he were truly unforgivably mad. Then again, Harry’s not even sure if he’s supposed to accept it. It wouldn’t be out of character if Malfoy only offered it to be petty and take it back at the last second. Or worse, the tea’s poisoned. Either way, it’s clearly a trick, designed to lull him into a false sense of security. Harry holds his position by the door – the exit route – just to be safe. 

“You knew I was there anyway,” he babbles in what he knows is an abysmal justification but he still has to make for lack of anything better. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve found some dark magic to see right through my cloak.”

The hard lines of Malfoy’s face falter and he finally drops his outstretched arm, placing Harry’s teacup on the table without a saucer. Yikes.

Harry take a few careful steps forward against his better judgement, away from the safety of the door. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I know you’re not using dark magic. I’m just a dickhead. I shouldn’t have been spying on you.” He winces at his word choice. “Not that I was spying, it just kind of happened, and then I was trapped.”

Silence. Harry’s guilt is compelled to fill it.

“No, actually, I was spying. Properly spying. It was shit. I’m shit. Sorry.”

Malfoy’s eyebrow finally quirks, and he heaves out a particularly aggressive sigh as he settles himself in a lounge chair. Harry takes this as an invitation to approach (slowly!) and sit opposite, but his legs are tense, still primed for a quick getaway. He carefully picks up the abandoned teacup.

“I can’t see through your cloak,” Malfoy finally says. His voice isn’t as cold as it could be, which is _something_. Harry relaxes a fraction. “But I can usually smell you.”

Harry freezes, the teacup at his lips. He drops it in favour of asking a very urgent question: “Do I stink?”

“No,” Malfoy answers quickly.

Interesting. Another urgent question springs to mind and Harry momentarily forgets he’s supposed to be feeling guilty. “So, I smell good?”

“No,” Malfoy says just as quickly. “Wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your face, Potter. I’m still mad at you. All I meant is you have a distinctive _neutral_ Harry Potter smell.”

Harry considers this and decides distinctive is still good. Apart from the Invisibility Cloak being completely useless of course. He leans forward discreetly and breathes in.

“I can’t smell you at all.”

Malfoy smirks, some warmth returning. “Most of us actually bathe regularly.”

Harry doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he finally takes a sip of tea. It’s not poisoned as far as Harry can tell but it is ice cold. He knew Malfoy would be petty. Rather than show his discomfort, Harry gulps the disgusting excuse for tea down bravely.

Malfoy watches until Harry’s placed the teacup down, then crosses his arms. “What is it you want?”

“Maybe I came just to spread my smell around.”

“You’re not a dog, Potter. There’s always a catch. What is it?”

It almost seems silly for Harry to explain his purpose now, but the alternative is that he only visited to spy on Malfoy which is obviously worse. He sucks in a deep breath and channels his courage.

“I thought it was time I taught you how to flirt.”

“ _Out._ ”

Harry ignores this. “You were completely clueless with Terry and then you gave Cormac no indication of your returned interest.”

“Perhaps because I wasn’t interested.”

“I know you were. I saw you checking him out.”

Malfoy wrinkles his nose. “Fine, I was _moderately_ interested.”

“But you didn’t show it to Cormac.”

“What would you have me do?” Malfoy tilts his head, smirking. “Climb all over his bed provocatively?”

“You can start with something simple like complimenting your date.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I know how to compliment someone.”

“Yes, but to flirt you need to compliment them with your _eyes_.”

“What does that mean?”

It’s not quite a challenge, but Harry takes it as one all the same. He knows from his time as leader of Dumbledore’s Army that demonstrations are essential to learning. He walks around to Malfoy’s chair and wedges himself on the armrest, leaning into Malfoy’s face as close as he dares. 

“You have the most gorgeous neck,” he whispers, holding eye contact and letting his lashes flutter.

Malfoy leans back and clears his throat, his face reddening. “Very funny, Potter.”

“Now pick something about me to compliment and try it out.”

Malfoy’s eyes dart over Harry’s face frantically and finally land on his forehead. “Your hair is…not awful,” he says tightly, blinking clunkily with his eyelashes.

“Why Malfoy, if it weren’t for your flirtatious eyes, I would have thought you were insulting me,” Harry teases, all the while still fluttering his lashes.

“Stop doing that.”

“What? This?” Harry flutters more profusely.

“Stop it.”

Harry leans in closer, chasing Malfoy back against the chair’s head rest. “Am I too irresistible? Are you falling for me? Should I call Neville and cancel?”

It’s supposed to be a joke but Malfoy’s breath hitches and Harry’s so close he can feel the warm exhale against his lips. He closes his eyes at the sensation, enjoying the way it tickles his skin and sends goose bumps down his arms. Then, he remembers where he is, _who he’s_ _with_.

Harry pulls back quickly. “I think you’ve got the hang of it now.”

“Yes.” Malfoy nods for longer than necessary. “Eyelashes and compliments.”

Harry stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling buzzed and tired all at once. His left-hand closes over a small bottle and he’s relieved for the easy change of subject. “I got this for you,” he says, throwing the green nail polish on the empty lounge chair. “If you want.”

As Malfoy’s eyes leave him to inspect the gift, Harry takes the opportunity and dashes from the room. _No more demonstrations_ , he promises himself.

* * *

“A Greenhouse. How unique and unexpected.”

Harry elbows Malfoy in the ribs with his invisible elbow. He has a strong suspicion why Neville suggested this particular Greenhouse and despite what the prat might say, Malfoy is certainly in for a surprise.

“Remember, play nice and use your eyelashes,” Harry whispers.

A faint blush appears on Malfoy’s cheeks and Harry wonders if they’re both thinking back to the moment earlier in the week. They’ve barely spoken since, only essential date planning and no sign of the usual archrivalry banter.

“Pott–,” Malfoy starts but unfortunately, _tragically_ , Neville unlocks the Greenhouse door from the inside and cuts him short.

Neville’s dressed in dirty overalls that are both too big and too small for him and elbow length gloves with the tell-tale overshine of faux-dragonhide.

Neville eyes Malfoy up in a decidedly non-romantic way. “Come on, then,” he says roughly, turning on the spot in big yellow gumboots stamped with the Hogwarts crest.

“I’ll play nice if _he_ does,” Malfoy whispers before following. Whatever he was going to say is gone, the moment lost. He’s dressed in his standard black robes, and he hitches them up as he steps over the muddy entrance way. 

Harry lets his Invisibility Cloak travel through the mud grumpily; he can spell it clean later.

They follow Neville to the far corner of the Greenhouse and a small gated enclosure surrounded by tall hedges. Neville pulls out both his wand and a key from the wide-set pockets of his overalls and sets about removing magical barriers and a muggle padlock all at once.

A bead of sweat rolls down the back of Malfoy’s neck. (Not that Harry is looking.)

“Tight security for plants,” he comments with obviously forced bravado. “Is this safe?”

Neville glances back and chuckles. He leans down, picks up a spray bottle by the gate and squirts some brown liquid in Malfoy’s face. A droplet flicks onto the Invisibility Cloak and Harry quickly shakes it free before Neville notices.

“What the fuck?” Malfoy jerks back, rubbing the liquid from his eyes. “What _is_ that?”

Neville just chuckles again and removes the padlock – the last line of defence – from the gate.

“You owe me for this,” Malfoy mutters quietly.

Harry pretends not to hear. This date may not have been one of his brightest ideas…

The hedged gate swings open inwards revealing mostly empty space, except for one giant plant. If it can be called that. From a first impression, Harry would sooner classify it as a monster. Harry’s best frame of reference is the Venus Fly Trap he spied on the Discovery Channel while hiding in the bushes outside the Dursley’s living room window. Except this “plant” is much bigger, much nastier and bright purple.

“Meet Violet,” Neville says proudly, sliding his hand bravely over the roof of the plant’s mouth. Or at least it looks like a mouth with its sharp ridged teeth-like edges. “I’m almost finishing replanting her.”

Violet’s giant tongue (yes, she has a tongue!) juts out, spitting dark purple ooze that sizzles when it lands on fresh dirt by her exposed roots.

“She needs to be replanted every couple of weeks because her discharge erodes the surrounding soil.”

“Charming,” Malfoy drawls. He hasn’t moved from the gate way and he clutches onto it with white knuckles and perfectly painted green nails. Harry smiles at the sight of the polish, a little bit smug and a little bit relieved. He knows what it’s like to supress your identity and he doesn’t wish it on anybody, even his archrival.

“Pass me that bucket,” Neville says, kneeling beneath Violet, and allowing his head dangerously close to her wide plant jaws. At least there’s no question he fits the bravery criteria.

Malfoy’s eyes flick over to the tall bucket of soil on the other side of Violet. He waves his wand and levitates it over to Neville, holding his distance. Harry doesn’t blame him. Violet reminds Harry of Aragog and Slytherin’s Basilisk all combined into one awful nightmarish amalgamation.

“Come on, Malfoy, you’re not _scared_ of Violet, are you?”

Malfoy smirks but his eyes betray him, flickering between Neville and the plant. “Of course not. I simply value my life and intend to keep living it for the immediate future.”

Neville shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He tucks his wand in his overalls, fishes out a couple of handfuls of soil from the bucket and manually pats them over the exposed roots. “Harry has a lot of friends here,” he says casually as he works.

Malfoy’s smirk drops. “I’m aware.”

“And you don’t,” Neville continues. “Even most of the Slytherins don’t like you, you know?”

Malfoy pushes off the entrance gate and steps forward. “What’s your problem?”

Neville stands and turns around to face Malfoy. “I don’t know, maybe the fact you bullied me for years. And now you’re using Harry–”

Malfoy closes the distance and jerks his chin up to stare defiantly at Neville, who towers above him. “I’m not using him.”

“Yeah, then explain why he is wasting his time playing matchmaker for a cruel, selfish narcissist like you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is my business because Harry is my friend and if you so much as–”

“I would never hurt him!” Malfoy yells, and it almost sounds genuine. Malfoy will say anything to win a fight.

Neville chuckles and turns away, bending down to scoop up more soil. “It’s a bit late for that, _Death Eater_.”

Ouch. Harry’s eyes are glued to Malfoy’s face, anxiously awaiting his reaction to the insult, so he doesn’t notice Violet moving until she’s almost on Malfoy, her vicious plant mouth opening wide above his head and bracing to–

“No!” Harry shouts. He leaps forward, pushing Malfoy out of the way and stepping on his cloak in the process. It twists sharply, trapping one leg and arm together and revealing the rest of his body. Something cold and wet slams over him and he’s lifted into the air, feet kicking uselessly behind him.

“Harry?” Neville shouts. “Harry, is that you? What are you doing here?”

“Never mind that,” Malfoy’s voice screams roughly. “Get him the fuck out of there!”

“Right, yeah.”

Whatever Neville does, it must work, because the next thing Harry knows he’s being vomited onto the muddy Greenhouse floor with a generous coating of purple ooze. Thankfully, it’s not sizzling, but it’s plenty gross all the same. He removes the worst of it from his eyes and mouth, bundles up the cloak in one hand and carefully gets to his feet. He’s stuck in the middle between Neville and Malfoy.

He smiles weakly at Neville. “Surprise?”

Neville’s eyes flick from Harry to Malfoy and back. “You’ve been here in your cloak the whole time,” he finally says. “Why?” Without waiting on an answer, he turns on Malfoy, rapid-fire. “Have you cursed him? Have you Imperio-ed him?”

“Of course not,” Harry answers quickly. “Malfoy’s never been able to make the Unforgiveable curses work for him.”

“Funny how he never had a problem with hexes and jinxes.”

Malfoy takes a step forward, then clutches at Harry’s shoulder when he almost stacks it in the puddle of ooze. He composes himself, flicks Harry’s shoulder-ooze from his hand and clears his throat. “I’ve changed.”

Neville chuckles unkindly. “So I hear. I guess it’s just a coincidence it happened after Voldemort died. Laying low isn’t changing, it’s saving your own neck.”

Harry holds up his ooze covered hands. “Okay, Neville, I think you need to calm–”

“And _you_ ,” Neville says, rounding on Harry. “You seriously think I would date someone who bullied me for years just because he’s decided to take a break? Sure, he hasn’t insulted me all year, but has he said anything to me at all before tonight? No niceties, no apologies, no begging for forgiveness, nothing.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to,” Malfoy says in a quiet voice.

“How thoughtful of you. I guess I was wrong, you really have changed. My bad for trying to murder you.”

“Hey!” Harry tries to approach Neville but he slips on the ooze, and unlike Malfoy, he finds nothing to grip onto so he falls on his arse. Frustrated, he flicks his hands and the purple ooze vanishes, leaving behind purple-stained skin and an uncomfortable soggy sensation in his clothes. He stands up and continues his – now slightly less intimidating – accusation of Neville. “You almost murdered me.”

Neville shakes his head. “Malfoy was never in danger.” He sprays Harry with the same brown liquid he attacked Malfoy with earlier. “Violet’s repulsed by mushrooms.”

From purple plant ooze to brown mushroom juice, Harry is going to need a long shower to feel clean again. As he’s rubbing his eyes, Malfoy pushes him aside.

“You sprayed me with mushroom juice?”

Harry opens his eyes only to watch Neville spray Malfoy again.

“In second year, you filled all my shoes with worms,” he offers as justification as Malfoy spits out the juice.

“Hang on,” Harry says. “You never filled _my_ shoes with worms. _I’m_ your archrival.”

“I was keeping my options open.” Malfoy winks and even with a face full of dried mushroom juice, it does something weird to Harry’s chest.

Neville clears his throat pointedly. “Why are you here, Harry?”

“He’s teaching me how to date,” Malfoy explains…ish. 

“Why?”

“Because I’m desperate and he fancies himself everyone’s personal saviour.”

Neville eyes Harry, the suspicion on his face evolving into something more like curiosity. “That checks out,” he agrees, but he squirts Malfoy in the face again anyway.

“Stop spraying me with mushroom juice!”

“In first year, you spelled my bed to dump me on the floor every hour.”

“In my defence, I thought it was Potter’s bed.”

 _That’s more like it_ , Harry thinks. An archrival relationship works best with equal animosity on both sides. Archrival triangles are a complicated mess.

“Nevertheless,” Malfoy continues, “I am truly sorry and embarrassed by my behaviour towards you. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you–” He cuts off and splutters as Neville shoots him in the face again. “ _Other_ than being sprayed with mushroom juice, I will do it.”

Neville looks Malfoy up and down and stands up straight, locking his knees. “Donate one thousand galleons to the War Orphans fund.”

“I can’t do that,” Malfoy says stiffly.

Neville sprays him once more.

“Stop spraying me!”

“I should have known not to ask you to part with mummy and daddy’s precious money.”

“He doesn’t have any money left,” Harry tries to explain at the same time Malfoy says, “I already donated it all.”

Once the words catch up, Harry turns to stare at Malfoy in surprise. _That’s_ how he ran out of literally millions of galleons?

“Where?” Neville asks.

“The Hogwarts Restoration, the Muggle and Muggleborn Rights Society and–” Malfoy’s voice falters “–the LGBTQIA+ Wizards Network.”

Neville lowers the spray can. “I’ll be looking into that.”

Malfoy shrugs. “Be my guest,” he says to the Greenhouse floor. “Do you mind if I go jump into the Black Lake now?”

Neville nods. “Go ahead.”

Malfoy scampers off, too quickly for Harry to join him. It doesn’t matter, Harry’s used to playing chase by now. He carefully folds the Invisibility Cloak so he can stuff it in his pocket. 

“Why are you really doing this, Harry?”

Harry looks up at Neville and opens his mouth to offer his reason, but no answer is forthcoming. He frowns to himself, trying to remember why he agreed so readily to the deal when all he gets to do is eavesdrop on Malfoy’s dates...and occasionally save him from vicious carnivorous plants. 

Neville nods, as if he expected the lack of answer. “Be careful.”

Harry shrugs off the advice, not quite understanding it, and heads off in search of Malfoy.

He isn’t sure if Malfoy was being serious or not but the edge of the Black Lake isn’t too far from the Greenhouses so it’s worth checking it out before heading back into the Castle. The sun has long set with only the moon casting the faintest glimmer of light across the lake’s surface, so Harry can’t make out Malfoy’s figure floating in the lake until he’s almost at the shore.

“I thought you were joking,” he calls out in a stage whisper, just as he trips over. He rights himself and looks around for the source to find a black robe– “Wait, Malfoy, are you _skinning dipping_?”

A gurgled scoff comes from the direction of Malfoy’s shadowed figure. “Tell your libido to take a vacation, Potter. I’m wearing pants.”

Harry’s thankful the cover of darkness hides his face because he’s certain it must betray his interest. Not that he’s interested in Malfoy specifically. Just that naturally the thought of skinny dipping led his mind in a particular direction. He stares down at Malfoy’s discarded robe for a long moment, before making a decision. Then, he strips down to his binder and pants and dives into the lake.

It’s cold but not unpleasantly so. In fact, it’s a relief to counter the soggy feeling leftover from the purple ooze. Harry dunks his head in a couple of times for good measure before flicking his hair from his eyes and resting on the surface. He swims over to Malfoy.

“So, I guess brave didn’t work out too well for you.”

Malfoy tilts his head back laughing and the moon catches in the silver of his eyes. His platinum hair swings loose around his face. “None of the dates you’ve set up seem to be working for me. Curious, wouldn’t you think?”

Harry smiles at the challenge. “Maybe you just need to be more specific.”

“You’re right,” Malfoy says seriously. “When I said brave, what I really meant was reckless. Like dive-head-first-into-the-Black-Lake kind of reckless. Or too-stupid-to-worry-about-the-consequences-of-their-own-actions reckless. That’s who I want. Remind you of anybody?”

Malfoy flicks his hair back and Harry tracks the movement of each strand until they fall, settling behind his ears. He blinks furiously, trying to refocus and answer Malfoy’s question. Who does he know who’s not a pureblood nor a snob, but from Gryffindor, and brave to the point of recklessness?

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“You do that, Potter.” Malfoy rolls his eyes and disappears beneath the water. 


	6. Dating Seamus Finnegan

“…so Parkinson came to see if Hermione knew where he was, and she found me in Hermione’s dormroom so I had to explain…”

Harry nods at regular intervals to satiate Ron’s ramblings about Malfoy and specifically where he disappeared to last Saturday night. Really, he’s only half listening to the thinly veiled accusation, much more focused on the Gameboy he’s playing under the table. If he can get away with this all day, he’ll happily attend every class for the first time in months.

Hermione turns up halfway through breakfast which is peculiar, but neither she or Ron acknowledge it, and Harry doesn’t ask.

“Joanne better not have said shit today because I simply do not have the time,” she announces, before poring through the pages of the Daily Prophet regardless.

“So,” Ron says, returning to his pointed discussion of Malfoy, “his friends suspect he was with someone, maybe _romantically_ , on Saturday–”

“He was with Harry,” Hermione interrupts, discarding the newspaper.

Reluctantly, Harry pauses his game. “How do you know that?”

“He just told me.”

Hermione was with Malfoy? Sure enough, when Harry turns around to the Slytherin table, he can see Malfoy only now taking his seat, and reaching for a familiar fruit tart. So much for secrecy. Harry’s not allowed to talk to Malfoy in front of Parkinson and Zabini, but Malfoy can blab to Hermione?

_What else did he say about me?_ is what Harry _wants_ to ask, but it reeks of desperation, so he feigns indifference. “I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

“Don’t be childish,” Hermione admonishes, dismissing the claim as if she hasn’t been ignoring Harry for the last few weeks.

Ron catches Harry’s eyes over her head and grins. For a moment they’re back in first year, naïve and stupid and laughing at anything. Harry’s grateful when an explosion further up the table gives him an excuse to look away.

“Stay back, stay back,” Dean Thomas is shouting over the roar of excitement. “That means you, firsties!” Behind him, surrounded in a puff of smoke and ash, is a grinning Seamus Finnigan and a charred cereal bowl.

In the commotion, Harry doesn’t realise Anthony Goldstein’s slipped into the seat beside him, until a mobile phone is waved in front of his face. He takes it automatically, confused.

“You’re our fourth Gryffindor,” Anthony says proudly, whatever that means.

“Why are you giving me all this stuff?”

Anthony shakes his head as if the answer is obvious. “How do I put this into words? Without you, we’d all be dead. Seeing you is always a joy, even when you’re being exceptionally grumpy.” He smiles and stands up. “Also, the group chat needs more flavour,” he adds as he walks away shooting finger guns.

Harry looks down at the phone, running a thumb over the backlit buttons. The Dursleys never let him have a mobile but he’d fantasised about it as a kid. To young Harry, it represented freedom and independence. Of course, finding out he was a wizard ending up being significantly more useful. He tucks the device in the pocket of his robe and returns attention to his Gameboy, another undeserved present from Anthony.

* * *

The Gameboy serves Harry well in his classes, that is, until Potions when Professor Slughorn confiscates it.

“Lessons too easy for you, m’boy? It can be difficult being more advanced than your classmates–” Hermione scowls– “however I must insist you engage all the same.”

When Slughorn leaves their station, Harry immediately pulls out the phone instead, ignoring Hermione’s responding glare. He plays around with it at first, learning the features. He’s just getting sucked into a game with a growing snake when the phone vibrates. Just once at first, and then several times in quick succession. Harry follows the flashing icons to a group chat and reads.

**ANTHONY:** we have successfully recruited another gryffindor

**LISA:** who???

**PADMA:** pls tell me u got me neville

**SEAMUS:** hi neville!

**ANTHONY:** its not neville

**PADMA:** I asked u 4 1 thing

**TERRY:** You should just tell him how you feel. Don’t let love pass you by.

**PADMA:** im not into neville   
**PADMA:** I just need 2 ask him about the herbo assignment

**SEAMUS:** 🤣 🤣 🤣 

**PARVATI** : padma has a girlfriend terry!

**TERRY:** The heart works in mysterious ways.

**ANTHONY:** shut up all of you   
**ANTHONY:** its harry potter

**DEAN:** HARRY POTTER!!!!!

**SEAMUS:** hi harry!

**LISA:** welcome to hell harry

**PARVATI:** dont scare him off

**SEAMUS** : yeah because the dude who killed voldy is going to be scared by a group chat

**DEAN:** do we call him voldy or you-knowy-whooey

**PARVATI** : he-whooey-must-not-be-namey

**PADMA:** the dark lordy

**TERRY:** Tommy Riddle

**LISA:** ew

**DEAN:** wtf

**ANTHONY:** youre banned from the chat terry

**TERRY:** I created this chat. 

**ANTHONY:** BANNED

**TERRY:** That’s not how banning works. If you really want to ban me, you need to tap the settings icon in the top right-hand corner and click ‘All Users’ and then tap my name and select ‘Boot From Chat’.

**DEAN:** BOOT BOOT FROM THE CHAT

**SEAMUS** : 🤣

**TERRY:** I’d much prefer not to be booted.

**PARVATI:** SAVE BOOT FROM BEING BOOTED

**PADMA:** justice 4 BOOT

**ANTHONY:** no booting but this is a chat wide warning  
 **ANTHONY:** if I read tommy riddle again im deleting this entire group chat

**LISA:** can you even do that???

**TERRY:** He can do that. I granted him admin access last week.

Harry finally catches up to the vibrations and quickly types a message before he falls behind again.

**HARRY:** Hi.

**LISA:** omg he used a full stop he HATES us already

**TERRY:** I use full stops.

**PADMA:** doesnt count when you do it

**ANTHONY:** another chat wide ruling  
 **ANTHONY:** its only cute and ironic when terry uses full stops

**LISA:** aww you think terrys cute?? <3

**ANTHONY:** I will delete this program

**TERRY:** Thanks, Anthony.

**HARRY:** sorry hi

**SEAMUS:** watch this guys

**PADMA:** wat class r u in?  
 **PADMA:** im in the library

**LISA:** yeah no fair parvati and I are in divination

Harry looks up from the phone and across the classroom to Dean and Seamus’s table, just in time to witness their cauldron spit out a rainbow of mist. It hovers above the classroom for a second, beautiful and ethereal, before it crashes down, coating every single student and Slughorn in a layer of now-brown sludge.

**DEAN:** lucky you

**SEAMUS:** it didn’t explode but!

As if in finale to the incident, Dean and Seamus’s cauldron subsequently blows up, burning off both sets of their eyebrows.

**SEAMUS:** nevermind

* * *

After two showers and one cleaning charm in-between, Harry can still feel the sludge from Seamus’s potion underneath his skin, a tingly sensation that won’t go away. Slughorn said it was harmless but it still gives Harry the heebie jeebies, worse than Neville’s mushroom juice.

Following _that_ dating disaster, Harry’s determined to find someone better suited to Malfoy. The problem is, Malfoy’s requests are becoming increasingly difficult, while the pool of potential candidates is becoming smaller. Yes, Harry’s dated a ridiculous number of people, but at least three quarters of them are women and immediately disqualified based on Malfoy’s sexuality. And a decent portion of the remaining men never attended Hogwarts, which leaves only a small group of Gryffindor men to select from. Then, the purebloods and snobs are out, and on top of that, Malfoy expects his dream bloke to be brave and reckless. It’s a detailed shopping list, that’s for sure.

Harry’s new phone vibrates – it hasn’t stopped all day – and he opens up the group chat to read the latest.

**LISA:** @Seamus is it true you covered the class in dog poo???

**PADMA:** y do I always miss the good shit

**DEAN:** it was supposed to be an incorporeal pride flag 🏳️🌈

**SEAMUS:** im trying again

**DEAN:** please don’t

**SEAMUS:** im doing it

**PADMA:** can I watch pls!

**SEAMUS:** yeah come to our dorm after curfew

**DEAN:** when it inevitably goes wrong @Parvati can I sleep in your dorm again?

**PARVATI:** of course   
**PARVATI:** lavenders bed is free

**SEAMUS:** are you scared? 🤣

**DEAN:** im just a responsible human being who doesn’t like sleeping in sludge thanks but good luck

**PADMA:** bring ON the sludgeeee

**SEAMUS:** SLUDGE SLUDGE SLUGDE

Hmmm. Malfoy wants reckless, huh? Is it really that simple? Seamus and Malfoy? Malfoy and Seamus? At least it can’t be worse than Neville and Malfoy. Harry casts another quick wandless cleaning charm over himself and takes the familiar journey to Malfoy’s dorm.

When Malfoy opens the door, he’s barefoot and dressed in sleek silver pyjamas. His hair is wet and pulled to the side, dripping steadily onto one shoulder. It reminds Harry of the Black Lake and the way Malfoy looked in the moonlight. He wordlessly steps aside to let Harry in, twirling a wand beneath his hair, drying it from the ends up. For some reason, Harry wishes he wouldn’t.

While Harry stares, trying to make sense of his fragmented thoughts, Malfoy sets up the usual teacups on the coffee table. The silk pyjamas reveal more than the school uniform; they invite Harry’s imagination as they cling and loosen against Malfoy’s body with every movement. Or perhaps memory because when he thinks of Malfoy’s sharp exposed hips, they’re just out of reach, beneath dark waters. Harry shakes his head, willing the inappropriate thoughts away as he sits down in his usual, familiar spot. Everything is becoming too familiar here.

With his immaculately polished fingers – he must have discovered the anti-chipping charm – Malfoy places a new tray on the table that instantly pulls Harry from his reverie.

“You got cream biscuits!”

“Don’t make this into something, Potter,” Malfoy drawls in his haughty way, yet his lips quirk up at the corners. “You’re doing me a favour, I’m simply responding in kind.”

Harry leans forward, inspecting. “They’re muggle,” he says in surprise, recognising his favourite brand. He stretches out an enthusiastic hand, only to have Malfoy drag the tray away.

“If you don’t want them...”

“Hey!” Harry shouts, summoning the biscuit tray into his hand. “I never said that.” He quickly stuffs two delightful, perfect, charming cream biscuits in his mouth before they can be cruelly taken from him again.

Malfoy stares at the table; a trail of crumbs is the only evidence of Harry’s casual magic. “Is my old wand really that useless?”

Harry checks his pockets, realising he’s left the wand back in his own dorm. Whoops! “I use it,” he contends through a full mouth.

“For what? Picking food out of your teeth?”

There’s something odd in Malfoy’s tone. Bitterness? Jealously? Fear?

“It’s like a safety net,” Harry explains. “I know it’s there if I need it.” Except now.

“But you don’t need it.”

“I don’t _rely_ on it,” Harry corrects. “Not like I relied on my old wand. When it broke, _I_ broke. I thought it was part of me, that I wasn’t a wizard without it, but then I realised wands don’t hold magic, they can only channel it. The power has always been and will always be mine.”

With a sense of clarity at stating his thoughts aloud, Harry looks past Malfoy and vanishes the glass of the windows behind him. Cool night air rushes into the room, howling as it bends arounds the castle’s corners. Harry grins.

If Malfoy is impressed at the objectively incredible display of magic and power, he doesn’t show it. He crosses his arms and fixes Harry with a stern expression. “Please tell me you can also make the glass reappear.”

Harry nods, smug from his endeavour, and concentrates. And concentrates. Instinctively, he reaches for his wand and comes up empty. So much for not relying on it. His grins turns into a grimace as he realises he may have overestimated his abilities. “Er…”

“What a surprise, Potter. You’re all power, no finesse.”

Malfoy, with a much more complicated and involved piece of magic than Harry’s, constructs a barrier, pushing and pulling with his wand until the room is silent once more. It’s only a temporary measure but it holds impressively tight. Malfoy must have incredible focus. 

“What is it you want?” he says. “And be quick about it, I don’t want to hold this up for any longer than necessary.”

Harry watches the vibrations in the barrier, suddenly unsure of his latest dating recommendation. Malfoy can’t be in a good mood now and Harry doesn’t have a particularly good track record…

“ _Potter_ ,” Malfoy prompts. A layer of condensation grows more pronounced on his forehead.

“How do you feel about Seamus Finnigan?” Harry hedges with an attempt at an encouraging smile.

“Explain,” Malfoy says briefly, breathlessly. His strained expression is hopefully in response to the weight of his sustained magic and not the dating prospect.

“Seamus is always making things explode in his face, right?”

Malfoy nods tightly.

“And yet, he keeps jabbing his wand at things he shouldn’t,” Harry continues.

“Is this a euphemism?”

“Come on, Malfoy. He’s the definition of reckless!”

Malfoy’s stiff posture drops; the barrier remains standing but pockets of cool air leak inside with high pitched whistles. He drops back against the chair with an out-of-breath huff. 

“You really have a type,” he says.

Harry perks up, intrigued by the prospect. “Yeah?”

“People I have no interest in dating.”

Oh, so he wants to be snarky. Harry can do snarky. “You’re the one who wanted to date my exes in the first place.”

“I thought as the chosen one you’d have more enticing candidates.”

“Seamus is very enticing,” Harry argues, and then because he can’t help himself: “In fact, I think you’ll find he’s very hot, especially when he’s jabbing his _wand_ –” 

“You are deplorable,” Malfoy says but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“I know. So Seamus?”

Malfoy passes his wand over to his other hand and the whistles grow stronger before returning to a low hum. “What’s the date?”

Harry grins. He’d been waiting for this question. “That’s up to you…when you ask him out.”

A flash of pure terror passes over Malfoy’s face. The barrier drops completely, letting in a whoosh of air. Malfoy reinstates it carefully, slowly, before turning back to Harry.

“I can’t ask him out. It’s too humiliating.”

“And it’s less embarrassing having your archrival ask out your dates for you?”

Malfoy shakes his head so forcibly water from his half-dried hair flicks into Harry’s face. “I _can’t_ do it,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“It’s easy,” Harry lies. “All you have to do is message him.”

“ _Message_ him?”

Harry laughs at the confusion on Malfoy’s face. Then stops when he takes in the exhaustion behind it, Malfoy’s rigid posture and the tight grip on his wand. Shit. 

“I’m sorry about the window. Do you– do you need somewhere to sleep tonight?”

And that’s how Draco Malfoy ends up in Harry Potter’s bed. Alone obviously. Harry wanders the castle instead, only settling into a windowsill by the Astronomy Tower in the early hours of the morning. With his head against the cool class, he grips the wand in his pocket.

* * *

By the time Harry returns to his dorm to change for breakfast, Malfoy’s already left. The only trace of him is the crisply tucked in sheets. He wonders if Ron noticed. He avoids breakfast just in case, ignoring his protesting stomach.

He’s attended more classes in the last few weeks than he probably had during the whole of the year and he’s not sure if it’s getting easier or harder. Today, he’s making an appearance in a morning Transfiguration class, but his dual motivations are not strictly academic.

First, once Professor Cattermole encourages the class to spend some free time practicing their wand work, he tilts his chair as far as can towards Anthony Goldstein, who sits a couple of seats over in the next row.

“Anthony!” he stage-whispers. And then louder: “Hey, _Anthony_!”

Anthony and five other students all twist their heads to stare at Harry. Professor Cattermole looks up at the commotion and Harry shrinks in his seat until she looks away. A moment later, there’s a buzz in Harry’s pocket.

**ANTHONY:** no need to yell  
 **ANTHONY:** thats what the phones are for

**HARRY:** sorry

**ANTHONY:** what can I do for you chosen one?

**HARRY:** you know how I’m a joy…

**ANTHONY:** I dont like where this is going…

**HARRY:** can I get a second phone?

**ANTHONY:** give a guy a little bit of fame call him the chosen one and it goes straight to his head

**HARRY:** its not for me

**ANTHONY:** malfoy?

**HARRY:** what makes you think that?

**ANTHONY:** aren’t you always hanging out with him?

**HARRY:** no who said that?

**ANTHONY:** literally everyone dude

**HARRY:** im not hanging out with him

**ANTHONY:** whatever   
**ANTHONY:** of course he can have one  
 **ANTHONY:** we need to break into the slytherin market  
 **ANTHONY:** Ill have terry program it and it will be with you by the end of lunch

**HARRY:** thanks

**ANTHONY:** dont mention it  
 **ANTHONY:** for real  
 **ANTHONY:** I think its against the school rules

Harry tucks the phone away, only to be accosted by Hermione’s far too knowing eyes. She’s swapped seats with Ron for whatever bothersome reason.

“You two are friendly,” she says, eyes flicking between Harry pocket and Anthony who is, once again, unsubtly shooting finger guns in Harry’s direction.

“I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

Hermione crosses her arms and wrinkles her nose into the exact same expression Harry’s always causing on Malfoy’s face. “So you say. Besides, that was just an observation. There’s no need to respond.”

“Then stop responding to me.”

Ron’s head pops up on the other side of Hermione and he’s smiling awkwardly. “I wonder what the weather’s like outside,” he interjects in a transparent attempt to cut the tension.

Hermione details the forecast from the morning paper and Harry uses the opportunity to drop his head on the desk and catch up on the lost sleep from last night. She doesn’t try to talk to him again.

When class ends, Harry stays back, watching Professor Cattermole bundle up her papers and reset the blackboard. He checks his face for nap drool and approaches.

“Professor, do you have a second?”

“Too many of them, Mr Potter,” she says without looking up. “What is it you need?”

Harry gets straight to the point. “I’m having trouble making something reappear. I vanished it easily but I can’t get it back.”

Cattermole laughs, not unkindly per se but Harry’s certainly not in on the joke. “You weren’t paying attention in third year theory I presume?” she says.

“Oh, I, er–”

“It’s okay, Mr Potter, I find theory a bit dry myself. However, vanishing objects is a curious field of magic. We don’t actually know where objects go to when we vanish them. Most academics suspect it is because they go nowhere at all.” Professor Cattermole drops her voice to a dramatic whisper. “The objects _cease to exist_.”

Harry shivers, thinking of the time Montague, an older Slytherin student, got stuck in a Vanishing Cabinet. “That’s…scary.”

“Right you are. Too scary for our minds to comprehend. So, when we make objects reappear, we assume we are pulling them from this imaginary perfect dimension where vanished things go. But by doing this, we’re underestimating the task. Technically we’re not bringing the same objects back at all but creating them completely from scratch.

“It doesn’t take a very extraordinary wizard to vanish objects, Mr Potter, but it does take a carefully disciplined artist to make them ‘reappear’.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry says. And then realising what he’s said in front of a professor, he repeats himself.

Professor Cattermole laughs again. “Usually I’d take points for language, but I share your sentiment. Good Luck!” She picks up the last of her items and heads to the door. “Oh,” she says from the entrance snapping her fingers, “and incredible work on the exploratory essay last week. Top of the class, I’d wager.”

She’s gone before Harry can correct her.

He trudges from the classroom, running through options of how to break it to Malfoy that the glass panes are not coming back. Dropping out of school and living with dragons in Romania remains in top position as the solution to all avoidance related anxieties.

“ _Harry_.”

Hermione stands just outside the door of the classroom, her expression maddenly all-knowing as usual. She’s been eavesdropping.

Harry rolls his eyes and walks past her. She follows.

“Yes, I’m an idiot, I know,” he says so she doesn’t. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m impulsive and stupid and I never think things through blah blah blah.”

To his surprise, all Hermione says is: “I can help. What did you vanish?”

* * *

After dinner, Harry visits Malfoy’s dorm, Hermione in tow. It’s strange to watch her knock on the door, like two worlds colliding. His _whatever-it-is_ with Malfoy is oddly personal. He’s already uncomfortable how much Neville knows about the arrangement without Hermione or Ron finding out more. (Because let’s face it, whatever one of them knows, they both know.)

The door swings inward, sending a cool draft outward. Malfoy’s fully dressed tonight. Shame. His sharp eyes flick back and forth between Harry and Hermione, and his eyebrows furrow ever so slightly. Harry wonders if Malfoy’s experiencing the same sense of disorientation he is. 

Hermione takes the lead, explaining to Malfoy the reason for their visit. Expect of course she doesn’t call him Malfoy. It’s _Draco._ And when Malfoy ushers them in, it’s “Thank you for coming, _Hermione.”_

“You’re on a first name basis?” Harry asks bluntly, unable to keep the question from his mouth.

Malfoy smirks. “Jealous?”

In truth, Harry’s always liked that Malfoy calls him Potter. Perhaps because before he came out as trans, Malfoy’s address was the only one that seemed to fit, or perhaps because of the pronounced way Malfoy’s voice hits the consonants. But, on the other hand, there’s something alluring about using Malfoy’s first name, and Harry longs for an excuse to try it out. To have Hermione use it so casually…yes, maybe Harry _is_ a little jealous. But, he can’t have _Draco_ reading into that.

“You’ll always be Malfoy to me,” he lies.

Hermione walks back and forth beside the window, running one hand over the exposed ledge and twirling her wand in the other. She whispers imperceptibly to herself.

Harry uses the private opportunity to slip the new phone into Draco’s hand. (“Is this…a wireless?”) He explains the basics as best as he can, enjoying Draco’s astonishment, and then opens the group chat. They settle into their usual seats by the coffee table and Harry starts the conversation on his own phone. 

**HARRY:** um we have another new member

**LISA:** luna! luna! luna!

**PARVATI:** if you say her name three times she’ll show up in your mirror wearing radish earrings

**PADMA:** dont b mean parv  
 **PADMA:** anyway its not her   
**PADMA:** shes with me

**DEAN:** is it your twin brother harry? Or a clone? ATTACK OF HARRY’S POTTER’S CLONE

**SEAMUS:** we watched star wars on the weekend

**DEAN:** I watched star wars YOU fell asleep

**HARRY:** its malfoy

**TERRY:** Hi, Draco. I’m so happy you’re joining us.

**LISA** : keep it in your pants terry

**ANTHONY:** keep your mouth out of the gutter lisa

**LISA:** keep your gutter out of my mouth anthony

**PADMA:** ???

**DEAN:** hi draco malfoy

**SEAMUS:** can we give him a nickname?

**PARVATI:** dray?

**TERRY:** D.

**ANTHONY:** dra-lfoy

**LISA:** mal-co?

**DEAN:** dra-ma

**LISA:** hahahahahahhahahahahahahahhahahahahahahhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

**PADMA:** lol

**ANTHONY:** we have a winner folks

**DRACO:** I prefer you all address me as sir

Harry chokes back a gasp and jerks his head up, but to his surprise, there’s no sign on Draco’s face of what he’s so crudely typed as his literal first message in the group chat. He’s staring at his phone, fascination flashing in his eyes as each new message pops up.

**LISA:** I think I just…*faints*

**TERRY:** You and me both, Lisa.

**DEAN:** wtf

**PARVATI:** keep your bdsm to private messages PLEASE ykinmk

Now it’s Draco turn to looks up. He catches Harry’s eye. “What’s BDSM?” he asks. _Innocently. Sincerely._

Harry bursts out laughing, not even caring that it draws Hermione’s attention. “Why are you asking people to call you ‘sir’?”

“Because that’s what father made people call him to feel important. It was a self-depreciating joke to acknowledge the presumptions they may have about me.”

The explanation only makes Harry laugh harder. He’s forced to explain BDSM to Draco with tears running from his eyes. He registers Hermione staring but ignores it.

Draco is not laughing. “So they think–”

“That you’re being sexual in the group chat, yes.”

Draco’s face reddens delightfully, and he pulls out his wand. “I’ll vanish the message.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s too late. Just explain it was a joke.”

**DRACO:** that was a joke

“Add some explanation marks for emphasis,” Harry suggests. He’s trying really hard to keep his laughter at bay for Draco’s sake.

“But I’ve already sent it.”

“No just three marks in a new message on their own.”

**DRACO:** !!!

**TERRY:** Pity.

**ANTHONY:** so…  
 **ANTHONY:** we agree on drama right?

**LISA:** absolutely

**SEAMUS:** let the drama begin

**PADMA:** r we sure draco is cool w it?

**DRACO:** fine

**PARVATI:** fine like fine or fine like _fine_

**DRACO:** fine

**ANTHONY:** now I have no idea what to think

Harry quickly glances back up at Draco to check. He’s still red, but he doesn’t look upset.

**HARRY:** he’s really fine  
 **HARRY:** he’s just not used to messaging

**LISA:** you cant talk mr full stop

**PARVATI:** how do you know? are you together again?

**ANTHONY:** lets not alienate the newcomers ok

**PADMA** : harry and drama are dating???

**DRACO:** no

**HARRY:** NO

**DRACO:** well don’t make it sound so unappealing potter

**DEAN:** hasn’t harry dated all of us anyway?

**ANTHONY:** speak for yourself!

**PADMA:** yeah no offence to harry but im a lesbian

**SEAMUS:** *all of us except for anthony and padma who have taste 🤣 

**HARRY:** you didn’t seem to have a problem when you were dry humping me in filch’s office

Draco makes an odd squeaking noise, and when Harry glances up, his eyes are wide. Harry smiles to himself.

**LISA:** omg

**DEAN:** my EYES

**TERRY:** FILCH’S OFFICE?

**ANTHONY:** wow you even made terry raise his voice

**PARVATI:** PRIVATE! MESSAGING! EXISTS! FOR! A! REASON! PEOPLE!

Harry briefly checks on Hermione to make sure she’s returned to analysing the window – she has – before approaching Draco’s chair and taking up position on the armrest.

“Message Seamus now,” he whispers.

“While he has the image of _humping_ you fresh in his mind?” Draco whispers back. “You really are twisted, Potter.”

“Ask him if it’s true. It’s the perfect opening.”

Draco’s neck snaps up to stare at Harry. “ _Is_ it true?”

“You’ll only find out if you ask him.”

“You’re shameless.”

“You love it.”

Draco drops his head back to the phone. “How do I message him?”

Harry gladly leans down to set up the private chat.

**DRACO:** is it true?

**SEAMUS:** jealous?

**DRACO:** of course not  
 **DRACO:** it sounds unsanitary

**SEAMUS:** we werent thinking about that at the time

“Why am I not surprised it’s true?” Draco asks.

“Um maybe because I’m a catch and people can’t resist me.”

Draco rolls his eyes and nudges Harry in the ribs. Harry loses balance and tumbles from the armrest to the floor. Draco peers down at him, unrepentant.

“What do I say now?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, rubbing his waist where the binder digs in. “Flirt with him!!”

“How? You only taught me how to do it with my eyes!”

Harry stands up and leans over the back of the chair so he can keep reading over Draco’s shoulder. “Ask him to call you sir again,” he suggests.

Draco swats Harry’s hand from where it rests on his shoulder. “No! He’ll think I’m talking about BSDM again.”

“BDSM,” Harry corrects, “and yes, exactly. That’s the point.”

The phone buzzes.

**SEAMUS:** is it true you and harry are dating?

**DRACO:** no  
 **DRACO:** jealous?

**SEAMUS** : 🤣 touche

**DRACO:** that’s not an answer…

**SEAMUS:** Im still deciding what I think about you

**DRACO:** what can I do to improve your opinion of me?

“Maybe if you treated him to a little BDS–”

“ _Potter!_ ”

**SEAMUS:** thats up to you 😉

“I think he’s winking at me.” Draco holds the phone up to Harry’s face. “Is he winking at me?”

Harry nods. “That’s code for he wants to bone you. Ask him to call you sir and see what happens.”

“Stop saying that, Potter. Sir makes me think of my father.”

Harry laughs again. He can’t remember anything ever being this funny. “Note to self: never explain the word _daddy_ to Malfoy.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, holding back another round of giggles. “Ask him if he’s free tomorrow night, then?”

“Already? Isn’t it too soon?”

“Not when he’s winking at you.”

Draco runs his fingers loosely back and forth over the phone keys. “If you’re wrong, I’m going to throw you out my glassless window,” he says seriously.

**DRACO:** are you free tomorrow night?

**SEAMUS:** damn not really

Draco immediately throws the phone across the room. “I have never been more humiliated in my life. Is this what asking people out is like? I hate it. Oh, I feel sick. Potter, I feel so sick.”

“Finished,” Hermione shouts, as the room suddenly quietens. Behind her, the glass has reappeared, blocking out the howling wind. Her self-satisfied expression turns to concern when she sees Draco, curled up in his seat, visibly freaking out. “ _Harry_ , what did you do?” she asks, which is a completely unfair conclusion. 

Neither Harry nor Draco answers her. In the newfound silence, it’s easy to hear the buzz of Draco’s phone on the floor. And then another four times. With each vibration, Draco cringes further back into his seat.

Harry summons the phone back and quickly surveys the new messages.

**SEAMUS:** im trying the rainbow potion in my dorm again  
 **SEAMUS:** I think I have the proportions right now  
 **SEAMUS:** you can come over tho  
 **SEAMUS:** dean and padma might be there too  
 **SEAMUS:** but we can chill after 😉

Harry plants the phone under Draco’s nose. “You are so in!”

* * *

Seamus opens the door with an ear-to-ear grin. He’s somehow already covered in a thin layer of ash which from a distance could pass for freckles on his pale skin. The sandy blonde of his hair can only be spotted in small tuffs above his ears. Scorch marks hover above his eyes and on his chin. 

“Looks who’s here!” he shouts, opening the door wider to reveal Dean, Padma and Parvati sitting side by side on a tiny dorm bed. They all cheer.

During the commotion, Draco leans into Harry’s side. “Protect my eyebrows at all costs,” he whispers seriously.

Seamus stands aside to let Draco in and looks through Harry to the corridor, turning his head both ways before closing the door. Harry just manages to slip in, holding the Invisibility Cloak tight against him so it doesn’t get stuck.

Inside Seamus and Dean’s dorm, the reason for the rambunctious cheering is immediately obvious. There are two cauldrons in the middle of the room, one emitting a foul-smelling yellow steam that Seamus attends to closely and the other acting as a spiked punch bowl. Or at least that’s what Harry can only assume from the four empty Firewhisky bottles sitting at its base.

“No five o’clock Harry shadow?” Seamus teases.

“We’re not dating,” Draco says with just a touch of offensive exasperation.

Seamus points a wet cauldron ladle at the huddled group on the bed. “He sounds like you three months ago, Dean.”

“Add a couple of sniffles and he’d sound like you _two_ months ago,” Dean hits back.

The twins laugh and Padma clinks her class with Dean’s. “Hear hear,” she says.

Seamus laughs good-humouredly, pouting only a little bit. He swaps ladles and prepares a cup of punch that he offers to Draco with a wink. The expression is decidedly less sexy in person, probably due to the lack of eyebrows.

“I gathered Potter was a heartbreaker,” Draco says, accepting the drink with a sneaky smile that Harry knows is for him. 

“Ah no, he’s a solid bloke,” Seamus, an angel of truth and wisdom, says. “It’s just, you don’t realise how much you miss him until he’s gone. And then it’s too late–”

“–because he’s already moved onto your best mate,” Dean interrupts, raising a glass in Seamus’s direction.

“Or your ex-boyfriend,” Parvati adds, raising her glass to Dean in turn.

The dorm doesn’t compare to a room under the stairs but Harry suddenly feels claustrophobic. Having an ex talk about him is one thing, but three all at once…not so fun.

Padma and Dean shuffle over, making a space for Draco between them on the tiny single bed. He sits down stiffly, keeping his arms tight at his sides. He hasn’t taken a sip of the Firewhisky punch yet.

“Who’s he dating now?” Padma asks.

‘Looking for your opportunity, Padma?”

Padma slips off a clog and hurls it at Seamus. It hits him square in the chest (“Oof!”) and rebounds forward…right into the potion.

“Shit!” Padma says, hopping over to the cauldron. “I’m so sorry!”

Seamus stares into the potion as it spits up purple sparks. “Ah no,” he says, wagging a finger excitedly, “it could be just what we need!”

Dean leans into Draco’s side, and Harry quickly moves in too so he won’t miss the whisper: “Nothing else has worked so far.”

Tame. Harry will allow it. 

“So who is he dating, really?” Padma asks again. “He can’t be single. He’s never single. Or at least he’s always–” Padma makes a crude thrusting gesture– “someone.”

All heads turn to Draco. Lurking awkwardly beside him, Harry feels the question fall on him too. Is this what people think of him? He hasn’t been with anyone in a while now. Well, except for Cormac McLaggen. And then before that there was Pansy Parkinson. And just before her– okay, so it’s not the driest of dry spells. But it’s definitely been drier recently. He’s been too busy matchmaking for Draco.

“I don’t know,” Draco says, shrugging. “I haven’t seen him with anyone.”

Dean wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I bet he’s got his sights on you.”

“No.”

“Come on,” Seamus urges, flicking his ladle up too enthusiastically and coating the closest wall with spots of pink sludge. “Has he been flirting with you? Seducing you?”

Draco raise his chin proudly, but a tinge of colour on his cheekbones betrays him. “I am not easily seduced.”

Parvati nods in approval. “Nice, make him work for it.”

Draco doesn’t correct her and Harry’s not in a position to defend himself, at least not without revealing his presence. Sure, Harry’s been teaching Draco to flirt, but controlled demonstrations are very different to the real thing. A couple of fluttered eyelashes does not a flirt make.

The potion makes an ominous bubbling sound and Seamus jumps on the spot with obvious glee. “I’ve a good feeling about this one!” he shouts. He gestures for Draco to join him. “Drama, what do you think?”

Draco is charming with Seamus, skirting around the obvious truth that the potion is not going to work, but not flirtatious. Harry starts off watching them closely, keeping track of every hand movement and every change in Draco’s expression. But the conversation is tame and he’s drawn away from them to eavesdrop on a more exciting discussion between Dean and Parvati about the pros and cons of dating Harry Potter.

The pros are apparently great sex (obviously), intense heart-to-hearts and Harry’s fierce protectiveness. The cons are not so affirming. Apparently, Harry’s a bad communicator and inconsistent with his attention. Parvati also puts forwards ‘bad date planner’ but Dean disagrees. This devolves into an argument about whether Madam Puddifoot’s is an acceptable place to take a first date.

Harry’s so wrapped up in the conversation, he doesn’t notice the growing noises from Seamus’s cauldron until it’s too late. There’s a final cackle like a bursting firework and the entire potion erupts, spilling out familiar brown sludge. Without thinking, Harry raises his hands and magically freezes the sludge in the air. Draco’s eyes circle the room frantically, never landing successfully on Harry on the other side of the room. Regardless, Harry understands the sentiment: _What the fuck?_

In response to those judgmental eyes, Harry would very much like to point out to Draco that his magic is the only thing standing between drenching everyone in potentially explosive sludge. Of course, he’s in a slight disadvantage on the communication front…since he’s not supposed to even be here at all.

Draco raises his wand discreetly, and Harry, relived, takes the opportunity to vanish the sludge. Padma’s clog falls to the ground with a surprisingly loud thud.

Draco makes a show of pocketing his wand. “You’re welcome,” he says loudly, taking credit for Harry’s heroic save. Necessary but rude all the same.

Dean drops to his knees at Draco’s feet dramatically and holds out Padma’s shoe. “You are my favourite person right now. Please accept this token as a sign of my undying gratitude.”

“Hey, that’s mine!”

Dean shrugs and turns to Padma. “Alas, fate pulls me in another direction.”

Padma accepts the shoes but sticks out her tongue. “Not interested, Dean.”

“And fate kicks me in the guts.” Dean stands up and joins Seamus who is already rearranging all the ingredients. “Please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing?”

“The night’s still young. One more try and I’ll have it.”

“What’s next?” Dean asks sardonically. “A _pair_ of shoes? Or maybe it only works with Louboutins?”

The group pile on Seamus but he takes it all with a wide smile, promising over and over again: “The next try will be the one,” despite the criticism.

Harry carefully saddles up to Draco’s side. “Thank you.”

Draco only nods.

“You’re not going to say it back?” Harry whispers. Surely Draco is grateful not to be covered in sludge.

Draco, infuriatingly, gives a slight shake to his head in response. Loudly, he says to the group, “Thanks for the show, Seamus. I’ll be on my way.” 

“What?” Harry mutters as Draco says his goodbyes and passes his untouched punch glass to an appreciative Seamus. “Why are you leaving?”

He can’t say much more, lest he draw attention to himself, so Harry waits until Draco’s left the dormroom and accosts him in the corridor.

“What happened to hanging back and chilling with Seamus?”

“He’s a nice guy, but he’s not _my_ guy,” Draco says. He pulls out his phone and ignores Harry in favour of typing. His fingers move lightning fast. Anyone would’ve thought he’d been texting for years, not days. 

It’s risky when Padma and Parvati might leave the dorm at any moment, but Harry whips off his Invisibility Cloak anyway. Draco has no excuse to ignore him now.

“So I suppose you want to add to your already picky list of criteria?”

Draco shakes his head without looking up from the phone. “No.”

“So just another recklessly brave, non-pureblood, non-snob, Gryffindor bloke? _Coming right up_ …” Harry says sarcastically.

Draco tucks the phone back in his pocket and (finally) looks up at Harry. “No need. I’ve already sorted it.”

“You _what_?”

“I have a date this weekend,” Draco says. His face is craftily blank but Harry can just see the smugness creeping in at the edges.

“With who?”

The smugness appears in full force. “Sorry, Potter, this one falls outside of our deal so I’m afraid you’re not privy to the details.”

With that, Draco turns on his heel and walks off down the corridor, the smugness permeating his body now; the swing of his hips is significantly more arrogant than usual.

Harry, in a strange frustrated daze he can’t quite explain, barrels after Draco. “I can still come on the date in my cloak though, right? Right?”


	7. Dating Dean Thomas

Draco doesn’t have a date on Thursday night. Not that he’s confided in Harry. No, Harry only knows because he’s standing outside of Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop in his Invisibility Cloak watching Draco walk in for a shift. It’s not like sixth year. Except it totally is. Harry’s not supposed to be obsessed with Draco Malfoy anymore. Except he totally is.

Following Draco around on dates has become like a second nature to Harry; he slips around undetected, the perfect eavesdropper. But now, here, without Draco knowing, he’s crossing a line. Again. And he knows he’ll do the same tomorrow and the next day, just to find out who Draco is dating.

Harry pulls off the cloak in shame and stomps into the Tea Shop, letting the door slam behind him.

Draco stands near the entrance, huddled with Brianne, and they both look over at the sound. Before Draco can say anything, Harry pushes the bundled-up cloak into his chest. “Take it.”

Draco’s fingers run over the silk fabric. He doesn’t ask why, he only asks, “Are you sure?”

Harry nods once, then, with a curt smile at Brianne, he leaves as dramatically as he entered.

During the walk back to Hogwarts, the certainty Harry had felt in his decision fades. The pull to find out what Draco is up to is so strong. Maybe it’s from years of seeing Draco as his enemy. Maybe it’s the hang-up of being the chosen one: that leftover sense of entitlement to be in control of everything. Whatever it is, he needs to shake it, fast.

* * *

Harry pushes scrambled eggs back and forth across his plate with his head propped in one hand. Hermione and Ron aren’t even trying to get him to talk this morning, which is new. He’s not sure if he prefers it or not. He sighs in frustration.

“Why so glum, Potter?”

Harry whips his head up just in time to watch Draco slide into the space beside him. 

“What are you doing?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Draco smiles wickedly. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

Hermione hums in disagreement. “Actually, that’s rather misleading. There’s no conclusive evidence to prove–”

“Dinner is obviously more important,” Ron interrupts, which earns another disagreeing hum from Hermione.

“ _No_ , that’s not what I’m…”

“What happened to not wanting to be seen with me?” Harry asks Draco, drowning out Hermione and Ron’s argument.

Draco leans closer into Harry’s side – _what is happening!? –_ and straightens Harry’s tie. _Oh_. Harry relaxes.

“Too late,” Draco says, starting to fill the plate that has magically appeared in front of him. “Everyone thinks we’re dating.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Draco shrugs and doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “Better than the alternative.”

Harry looks around, expecting to catch people staring. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter sitting at the same table should warrant _some_ gossip. However, the only person looking their way is Cindy Peters from first year and she hardly counts because she’s _always_ looking at Harry.

Harry turns back to Draco who seems perfectly at ease at the Gryffindor table. “Any plans for tonight?” he asks, _casually, subtly, nonchalantly._

Draco smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Not particularly,” Harry lies, but judging from Draco’s expression, it doesn’t help his case.

Draco opens his mouth and Harry braces himself for the taunt but before it arrives, Seamus Finnigan stops between them, clapping a hand on each shoulder.

“My favourite guys,” he says. He leans into Draco, whispers something frustratingly quiet and straightens back up, laughing.

Draco’s laughing too. “Don’t push your luck, Seamus,” he says.

Seamus winks and leaves, strutting away far too smugly for Harry’s liking. Too much hip, not enough forward motion.

Harry returns his gaze to Draco. “I thought you said he wasn’t _your_ guy.”

“Relax, Potter. Anyone would think you’re jealous.”

“I’m not,” Harry says quickly, because he’s not. He’s totally not. “I just want to know what you’re playing at.”

“And _who_ I’m playing _with_?” Draco makes the words far dirtier than a virgin ought to.

“Well, yeah,” Harry admits. It doesn’t mean anything that he’s curious. Anyone who had invested as much time as Harry in finding a date for Draco would want to know. “After all my help, I think it’s only fair you keep me in the loop.”

Draco tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. “Is that what _arch-enemies_ do?” he teases.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Harry stabs his breakfast and scowls as he accidentally flicks egg onto the table. “I don’t know.”

“You’re grumpy in the morning.”

“He’s grumpy all the time,” Ron supplies traitorously.

Before Harry can dispute the claim, Hermione adds, to Draco: “You should sit with us more often. You’re good for Harry.”

That does it. Harry drops his fork and stands up. He loosens his tie and stomps off. He’s had enough of breakfast, and if his slack tie bothers Draco so much, then Draco will just have to bloody well fix it again. 

* * *

“What are you starting at?” Ron asks.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring at Malfoy.”

“No,” Harry corrects, “I’m staring at the back of Malfoy’s head.” Which is completely different.

Professor Berrycloth enters the classroom, cloak swirling behind her far too dramatically to be natural. The motion draws Harry from his trance and he rubs his eyes beneath his glasses unnecessarily.

“That’s what I said,” Ron whispers.

“Whatever.”

“If you want to sit with him–”

For some reason, Harry latches onto the suggestion immediately and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s standing up, pushing through the students still filing through the aisle and dropping into the seat by Draco.

“Pansy will kill you.”

Harry places his books on the shared table and leans back in the chair. “I can think of a way to earn her forgiveness,” he says, if only to secure a rise out of Draco.

It works. Draco’s face screws up at the mention of his best friend. “Don’t be crude, Potter. And for the record, Pansy is not half as easy as you.”

“ _Relax,_ Malfoy. _Anyone would think you’re jealous_ ,” Harry regurgitates, feeling particularly proud of himself for turning the morning around.

“Touché.”

The classroom chatter falls to a hush as Professor Berrycloth commences the lesson. Harry lets his chair drop back onto four legs and he leans into Draco’s side.

“I was thinking–”

“That’s never a good sign.”

“–and you don’t have to tell me,” Harry continues, keeping his voice low, “but if you’re going on a date tonight, or this weekend, or whenever – not that I care – you might need some more pointers.”

The Professor’s eyes land on their table and Harry quickly sits up straight. She watches them for longer than normal before moving on. Harry notices Draco tense under the scrutiny.

Moments later, once they’re in the clear, Draco subtly nudges his notebook to Harry’s side of the table. At the edge of the page is a note with the ink still fresh.

 _I already know how to flirt,_ it reads in perfect cursive.

Harry glances at Draco only to be met with fluttering eyelashes. He looks back down to the notebook quickly. He should never have taught Draco that.

 _But what if things go further…_ Harry writes back.

Draco reads the note, shakes his head and pushes the notebook away.

Harry drags it back to his side to write another note.

_What if your mystery guy wants to kiss you?_

This time, Draco dips his quill into his inkpot in record speed.

_Then it’s none of your business._

Harry tries again.

 _You’ve never kissed anyone before._ _I_ _have._

The note irritates Draco. Harry can tell by way the heavy ink in his reply bleeds down the page on the last word. 

_No need to be smug,_ **_Potter._ **

Harry knows he’s pushing his luck now but he hates being kept on the outside. If he can’t know who Draco’s dating, he needs to be involved somehow. That was the whole agreement after all.

_I’m just saying, if you need to practice…_

Draco eyes the note for barely half a second before closing the notebook with a sharp snap. The sound draws Professor Berrycloth’s attention once more and she continues to keep an eye on them for the rest of the lesson. Harry doesn’t dare write another note under her gaze.

At the end of class, Harry goes to stand and leave with everyone else but a hand tugs him back down. He turns to find Draco, already flushed and still holding tight to Harry’s arm. 

“The date’s not until tomorrow. Come to my dorm after dinner tonight,” he whispers, all in a rush. “But if you bring that smug look, I’m calling it off.”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” Harry promises, trying to curb his smile. 

* * *

Harry’s in a much better mood at lunch, which may or may not have something to do with his plans with Draco tonight. But really, it makes sense. He’s been so involved in Draco’s dating life recently, it’s only natural he feels a desire to maintain some normalcy.

Draco doesn’t join them at the Gryffindor table again which sours Harry’s good mood slightly. Only because he’s stuck fielding Ron and Hermione’s questions. He answers them all in the negative without listening and discretely pulls out his mobile phone under the table. There’s over a hundred new messages in the group chat. He skims through absentmindedly until a recent message from Lisa makes him double back. 

**LISA:** I heard a rumour

 **PARVATI:** yes?

 **ANTHONY:** dont leave us hanging here

 **LISA:** dean has a date tomorrow

 **PADMA:** ooooooh! with who?

 **PARVATI:** good for you dean

 **TERRY:** With a body like that, he could have anybody he wanted.

 **SEAMUS:** TERRY!! 🤣 

**TERRY:** We were all thinking it.

 **PADMA:** I wasnt but u rite

 **SEAMUS:** seconded

 **LISA:** thirded

 **PARVATI:** thirded?

 **LISA:** idk

 **LISA:** tripled?

 **LISA:** thrice agreed?

 **LISA:** DEAN IS HOT OK???

 **DEAN:** I have more attributes than just my smoking hot bod btw guys

 **LISA:** omg dean hi

 **PADMA:** so who is it?

 **DEAN:** I don’t know if he wants me to say

 **PADMA:** dont tell us ur dating harry again

 **PADMA:** no offence harry

 **PADMA:** but we all saw how tht turnd out

Harry catches up with the chat and impulsively replies.

 **HARRY:** thanks very much

 **HARRY:** actually I do have a date tomorrow but its not with dean

It’s a lie of course, but he’s already sent the message before his brain can catch up. _Fuck,_ he’s an idiot.

 **LISA:** THE PLOT THICKENS

 **PARVATI:** harry literally always has a date

 **LISA:** oh damn true

 **DRACO:** I have a date tomorrow too

 **LISA:** wtf am I the only one without a date this weekend???

 **TERRY:** Don’t worry, Lisa. I’ll be playing Gobstones all weekend with sixth years.

 **DEAN:** what happened to me being the centre of this gossip?

 **ANTHONY:** the nature of the group chat is dynamic and unpredictable

 **PADMA:** if u tell us who ur dating well talk about u again

 **DEAN:** can I say, sir?

 **LISA:** OMG

 **DRACO:** sure

 **PADMA:**???

 **DEAN:** so its drama

 **SEAMUS:** youre joking

 **DRACO:** he’s not

 **DEAN:** its no different to what you did to me seamus

 **ANTHONY:** this is awks

 **LISA:** why what?

 **PARVATI:** seamus hooked up with harry the week after harry and dean broke up

 **PARVATI:** now dean has a date with draco days after draco and seamus dated

 **LISA:** oh drama really is a good nickname for him

 **PADMA:** r u ok seamus?

The constant buzzing of the chat ceases and Harry looks up just in time to see Seamus leaving the hall. Yikes. Usually it’s Harry causing drama and lovers’ tiffs; it’s kind nice to be part of the audience instead for once. Except for the fact Draco is going on a date with Dean tomorrow. There’s nothing wrong with Dean, of course, but that’s entirely the problem. He’s hot and funny and kind, and what if Draco decides he’s the one? After all Harry’s efforts, what if Draco finds the right person all on his own? And more importantly, why does the thought terrify Harry so much?

“ _Harry_ ,” Hermione’s tiptoe voice interrupts, “ _Are you alright_?”

Harry ignores the question just like the many before it and extracts himself from the table. There’s something he has to do. Make his lie about having a date tomorrow a reality. Which is usually pretty simple, but he’s starting to run out of people he hasn’t dated. His phone starts buzzing again. He doesn’t check it but it does give him an idea. 

“Harry, I’m so happy to see you,” Terry says, beaming as Harry approaches the Ravenclaw table.

“Thanks, Terry. Actually, I was wondering if, er–” he turns to Anthony, sitting across from Terry – “Anthony, you had a moment? A private moment?”

Harry leads Anthony to one side of the Hall, by the loud first years so they won’t be overhead.

“Is it more gossip?” Anthony asks. “I love gossip.”

Harry drops his hands into his pockets and leans against the wall casually. He hasn’t accumulated an extensive list of exes without knowing how to use his boyish charm. “I thought you and I might hit Hogsmeade this weekend?”

Anthony’s eyes widen. The charm must be working. “Like a date?”

Harry smiles with forced laziness. “Absolutely like a date,” he says in his most seductive voice.

“Oh, Harry, I didn’t realise.” Anthony takes a step back – not a good sign. “Look, you’re great and the chosen one and all, but I’m ace.”

Harry straightens up immediately and corrects his smarmy face, which now feels very silly. “Huh. Right. Sorry.” He considers Anthony’s words. “Romantically or sexually? Because…”

Anthony laughs. “Both, but nice try. Not everyone’s susceptible to your charms, I’m afraid. However, you’re more tempting than most.”

“I bet you say that to everyone.”

“Yeah,” Anthony admits with a careless shrug, “as a matter of fact, I do.” He leans on the wall beside Harry with his hands in his pockets, and mimics Harry’s earlier charms. “But if you still want to hang out in Hogsmeade as friends and pretends it’s a date to make someone jealous, I am _so_ on board.”

“Why would I need to make someone jealous?” Harry asks quickly. He never said anything about being jealous. Because he’s not.

“I don’t know,” Anthony says, like he means the opposite.

Harry considers the opportunity. He does still need a date tomorrow, lest he admit he was lying in the group chat. And hanging with Anthony sounds far more appealing than the pressure of finding a date right now.

“It’s not about making anyone jealous,” Harry clarifies, “but I would still like to hang. As friends.”

Anthony grins. “I’ll wear my best vest.”

* * *

The afternoon passes excruciatingly slow for Harry. At dinner, he crams his food down as fast as possible, as if that will make the time move faster too. He has not-so-subtly peaked over his shoulder seven times before he finally sees Draco rise and exit the hall alone. He forces himself to wait thirty painful seconds and then follows.

When he reaches Draco’s dorm, the door swings inwards before he’s even had time to knock. Draco stands at the doorway, still in school uniform, perfectly composed if not for the slight flush adorning his high cheekbones.

“Would you like tea first?” he asks. “Or...”

“Tea,” Harry answers immediately. He’s been waiting for this all day and yet now, he feels strangely nervous. “Definitely tea. And the biscuits. If you still have them.”

“I still have them.”

They take their usual seats at Draco’s coffee table but the air feels stiff and uncomfortable. Harry tugs at his tie. He feels Draco’s eyes as he loosens it to mid-chest.

“Thanks,” Harry says after Draco pours his tea. “So, Dean–”

“I’m not telling you about my date.”

“I wasn’t–”

“Yes, you were.”

“Fine,” Harry admits. “But only because you were so secretive about it.”

Draco offers no further details and they fall back into silence, but for the soft clinking of teacups on saucers. Tonight, the tea is peppermint flavoured and Harry silently thanks Draco for the clever choice. He eyes the room’s tall window, glass perfectly intact, no thanks to him. Below it, on the windowsill, Harry is drawn to the sheen of neatly folded fabric – his Invisibility Cloak.

“I haven’t used it,” Draco says quietly, which can only mean he’s been watching Harry’s eyes.

“There’s nothing you want to do? Nowhere you want to go unseen?”

Draco smiles but his eyes are sad. “That’s precisely the problem. I want too much. I’ve always been jealous of your cloak but now that I have it, I realise if I put it on, I might never take it off. I’d just disappear and no one would ever see me again.”

Draco’s sad revelation cures the nerves in Harry’s stomach, if only to replace them with pity. “That’s…probably not a healthy fantasy.”

Draco rolls his eyes and fixes Harry with a haughty stare. “I’m well aware, Potter.”

“Do you want me to take it back?”

Draco drops his gaze and busies himself refilling the teacups. It’s several moments before he replies. “No,” he says firmly. “I can resist the temptation.” His sad smile morphs into a smirk. “You, on the other hand, cannot be trusted.”

Harry doesn’t disagree.

They continue drinking tea in silence, the impending ‘practice’ bringing Harry’s nerves back in full force, if not worse. It doesn’t make sense. He’s made out with more people than he can count. This isn’t any different. In fact, this should be easier, because it doesn’t mean anything. He’s just doing Draco a favour because, well, because…that’s what arch-enemies do?

“Shall we–” Draco starts at the same time Harry says, “Where do you–”

Harry clears his throat awkwardly and waits for Draco to continue.

“On the bed,” he answers Harry’s unfinished question.

Harry tries not to let his shock show. “So _forward_ , Malfoy.”

“Don’t get any ideas. It’s the most logical choice. For comfort.”

“For comfort,” Harry repeats.

Draco stands up first and Harry follows him to the bed. The large one with the green silk sheets. He’s usually not this intimidated by beds. He watches as Draco climbs up and settles himself against the headboard. They definitely should have tried standing up first. 

Seeing only two options and deciding against straddling a virgin as his first move, Harry plants himself next to Draco, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. No matter what Draco claims, this is going to be far from comfortable.

Harry twists his torso inwards and Draco copies so they’re staring right at each other and Harry can feel the sharp tang of peppermint on Draco’s breath. They remain like this, unmoving, for too long. Somehow Harry’s forgotten every kiss he’s ever given or received.

“Aren’t you going to give me any tips?” Draco asks. His voice is barely a whisper.

Tips? Harry’s brain supplies nothing. It’s currently focused on the lopsided cleft of Draco’s top lip. “The best learning comes from experience,” he says since no other words are forthcoming. He leans in–

Draco leans back. “Wait, you have to give me _something_.”

Harry forces himself to think but ironically all he can come up with is: “Don’t overthink it.”

“Oh,” Draco says with a short laugh that hits Harry’s face, “well, _that’s helpful_.”

Harry leans in again and this time Draco responds in kind.

“Are you ready?” Harry asks.

“Yes.”

Harry grazes his lips against Draco’s gently, meaning to take things slow. But Draco breathes out in a sharp jolt immediately at the contact and Harry pushes in with more pressure, wanting more. It's been weeks since he’s kissed someone which is equivalent to a drought for Harry so he can’t be blamed for reacting in such a way. It doesn’t matter that he’s kissing Draco Malfoy. He’d have the same reaction to anyone’s lips. Except he _is_ kissing Draco Malfoy. And this is Draco Malfoy’s first kiss.

Harry pulls back. “Okay?”

Draco’s staring at Harry’s lips with a glazed look in his grey eyes. He nods and leans back in, but only halfway so Harry’s forced to initiate the kiss once more. Harry does, gladly, paying close attention to Draco’s perfectly lopsided upper lip, and drawing out more soft peppermint-scented exhales from its owner. Harry’s conscious of the marked level of experience between himself and Draco, plus the fact that this is purely ‘practice’, so he’s very careful about keeping his hands to himself, despite the innate desire to pull Draco closer, to card fingers through his hair, or even to get up and straddle–

He clenches his fists around the sheets instead and jerks his head back.

Draco, with swollen lips bright red against pale skin, pants into the distance between them. They stare at each other unblinking which is not new, except it is.

Harry laughs to break through the tension and drops back against the headboard, removing temptation from his eyesight. “You’re getting it now,” he says breathlessly.

“Oh, shut up, Potter.”

And then Draco’s straddling _him,_ and pulling him in by his messy hair for another kiss. Harry is nothing but compliant, letting Draco take the lead now, and he’s not half-bad, continuously switching up the pressure and pace like a deliciously wicked and unpredictable science experiment. He even attempts biting Harry’s bottom lip, and then again after Harry makes an encouraging noise. How did he know how to do _that_?

“So?” Draco says, pulling back, hands still clenched in Harry’s hair. “How was I?”

“Hmm,” Harry says, as he gets his breath back. “Better than average. Room for improvement,” he lies.

Draco drops Harry’s head and it hits the headboard with a loud thud. “Excuse me. Like what?”

Harry runs his fingers over his own swollen lips and thinks, desperately searching for some way to quantify his lie. Draco is a fast learner with a deliciously wicked mouth. The only thing missing is… “More tongue?”

“You haven’t even taught me tongue!”

Harry grins. It definitely wouldn’t be a proper kissing practice session if he didn’t teach tongue. “Are you sure you’re ready for it?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I can handle–hgurh…”

Harry sticks his tongue in Draco’s mouth and decides peppermint tea might be the best decision Draco Malfoy ever made. The sharp tang of it heightens the sensation of exploring Draco’s mouth, of teasing Draco’s tongue back into his own mouth. That, combined with Draco’s position atop him, sets Harry’s skin afire with sharp desire. For perhaps the first time in his life, he’s relieved he isn’t blessed with a certain appendage that would give his interest away very obviously in this position. His hands dig into the mattress, holding firm some scattered semblance of control. He almost loses it when Draco pulls back, wanting nothing more than to pull his mouth back in. He doesn’t.

Draco pants into Harry’s neck, his arms braced on Harry’s shoulder. “Ah,” he says with a sigh. “So _that’s_ tongue.”

“You like it, huh?”

Draco looks up sharply and meets Harry’s eyes. “Don’t get cocky. I have nothing to compare it to. The bar is literally on the floor.”

Harry isn’t insulted. He’s not so oblivious to realise Draco is not similarly affected by the electricity of their kisses. Sometimes, even when two people might not be compatible romantically, the chemistry still fits.

“Need more practice?” he suggests.

“Yes,” Draco says immediately, definitively.

Harry complies.

What feels like years later but can’t be more than an hour, Draco pulls back again. This time, Harry’s hands which have already crept up Draco’s back _do_ fight back, shamefully tugging him back down, desperate to reinstate the kiss.

Draco artfully rolls out of Harry’s grip and regretfully stops straddling him. “That’s enough,” he says, pushing to his feet on the opposite side of the bed to Harry. “I think I get it now.”

Harry rests his head against the headboard and grins up at Draco lazily. “You _definitely_ get it.”

“Stop flirting with me,” Draco says. He smooths the creases from his shirt and reattaches the top two buttons. Did _Harry_ do that?

“So I can kiss you but not flirt with you?”

“I’m not interested in joining your list of exes, Potter. This is purely educational.”

Right. The recollection of their purpose flushes over Harry like a cold bucket of water upturned on his head. “Of course,” he says, no longer grinning. “For me too.”

“That makes no sense. You better leave soon. Without your cloak you’ll need to get back before curfew.”

Harry doesn’t bother to point out that it’s almost certainly significantly past curfew already. “Right, yeah sure,” he says, sliding off the bed. He rubs his neck, cramped from staying in one position for so long. Funny how he didn’t notice while– well, there’s no point reminiscing now. It was a one time only kind of lesson. And tomorrow, Draco might just try out what he’s learnt with Dean.

Harry hurries to the door, suddenly eager to escape. But just as he’s about to leave, he falls to temptation and allows himself to look over his shoulder for one last glance at a thoroughly-kissed Draco Malfoy.

Draco stands by the windowsill, one hand running over the silk of Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, and a pensive look on his face.

“Uh, Draco.”

Draco’s eyes flick up.

“I wouldn’t want you to disappear.”

* * *

Hogsmeade is crowded, which isn’t unusual for the weekend, but it is incredibly frustrating when Harry is looking for two students of average height amongst a sea of charcoal grey Hogwarts regulation cloaks. Especially when he’s trying not to _look_ like he’s looking.

“What makes you think they’re in Hogsmeade?” Anthony asks. He’s wearing both the ugliest and best vest Harry’s ever seen with sequinned edges and obnoxiously sized vertical stripes in shades of pink and red.

“Who?” Harry feigns, even as he peers obviously through the window of the next store.

Anthony peers into the store beside him. “I’m over playing stupid,” he says. They have been doing this for almost an hour now.

“Sorry,” Harry says, even as he moves on to the next store and repeats the process.

“You’re very…”

“What?”

“Intense,” Anthony finishes like he means something else entirely.

Eventually, when there is still no sign of Draco or Dean, Harry gives into Anthony’s suggestion that they take a quick break at The Three Broomsticks. He only agrees because they haven’t checked the Broomsticks window since earlier in the morning and it’s worth another look. 

Unfortunately, Anthony pulls Harry past the window before he can make a preliminary assessment, and forces him to actually walk inside. A quick glance tells Harry all he needs to know, but he let’s Anthony guide him to an empty table anyway. A break is probably a good idea, after all.

Anthony says hi to Seamus and Lisa who sit at an adjacent table while Harry keeps his eyes trained on the door. Just in case luck is on his side today.

“What are you up to?” Anthony asks.

“We’re on a date,” Lisa says gloomily. “Well, _I’m_ on a date. I don’t know what _he’s_ doing.”

Harry spares a cursory glance at Seamus to find he’s not the only one staring at the door. It’s oddly comforting.

Seamus suddenly jumps up, sploshing the drink in his hand. “I knew it!” he says. “Dean thinks it’s a wasted trip to Hogsmeade without a butterbeer.”

Harry quickly jerks his head back around to discover Draco and Dean have just entered, hand in hand. Despite Seamus’s scene, they don’t look over, appearing not to notice, and drop into one of the small booths by the bar. The walls of the booth hide their faces, but their intertwined hands, now stretched over the table remain in clear sight. Even when a waiter arrives with their butterbeers, they remain interlocked.

 _Have they kissed yet?_ Harry wonders. _Did Draco take to heart Harry’s lesson on tongue? Should Harry go over there and refresh_ –

Harry doesn’t have to because it’s Seamus who loses patience first and stomps over to the booth. With a sheepish look at Anthony and Lisa, Harry follows.

“I’ve had enough of this!” Seamus says grandly, as he stops in front of the booth. The patrons at the adjacent table glance over.

“Seamus, what an unexpected surprise,” Dean says, like it is not a surprise at all. He does not drop Draco’s hand.

Seamus puffs out his chest, and Harry is sure he can see the faint outline of steam venting from his ears. “This is completely different to dating Harry Potter after you and you know it.”

 _Ah_. Harry longs for his Invisibility Cloak as all heads in The Three Broomstick turn to the commotion.

“Why?” Dean asks

“Because that was before we…” Seamus looks around and jams his hands into his pockets. “Before…before… _you_ kissed _me_!”

Dean (finally) drops Draco’s hand and slides out of the booth, standing up chest to chest with Seamus. “And then _you_ went and dated Draco Malfoy!”

“I didn’t know if you were serious or not! I was trying to make you jealous!”

A bang like a pot exploding sounds from the back kitchen. There’s no other background noise in the The Three Broomsticks as all the focus is on Dean and Seamus. Even the clink of self-washing glasses behind the bar has ceased. 

“What do you think _I’m_ doing?” Dean asks Seamus.

“You– but _he_ –”

“Honestly, you two are worse than these ones,” Lisa says, appearing behind Harry and gesturing towards Draco. “Just kiss and make up already.”

Seamus’s face is violently red like a tomato and Dean fares no better, his usually confident smile replaced with a bitten lip and eyes that won’t stay still. Lisa takes a hold of each of them by the collar and drags them to a darker corner of the pub, well-known as the perfect date spot for amorous couples. As soon as she turns away, they are indeed smacking face.

Lisa salutes Harry and leaves The Three Broomsticks, Anthony in tow behind her. He shoots Harry an apologetic (or encouraging?) smile.

Harry drops into the booth across from Draco, determinedly not looking in the direction of Dean and Seamus, but unable to drown out the sound of their mouths smashing together regardless.

“So, dating Dean was all a scheme to make Seamus jealous?”

Draco shrugs with an infuriating smile. “Sure. _Seamus_.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

Draco ignores the question. “Of course, it helped that Dean Thomas perfectly matched my updated criteria.”

“You have _more_ criteria?”

“Yes, I’ve decided a sarcastic sense of humour is vital to compatibility.”

Harry is tempted to bang his head against the table. “Who am I going to find–”

“I’m not done. You see, Dean still didn’t quite satisfy me.”

“Yeah, because he liked somebody–”

“ _So_ , I’ll need my next match to be an excellent Quidditch player too.”

Harry blinks back at Draco’s perfectly serious face. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

Harry runs through a very short list in his head of sarcastic Gryffindor Quidditch players. No scrap that, sarcastic Gryffindor _excellent_ Quidditch players, whatever that means. Dean played some Quidditch for the Gryffindor team and he wasn’t bad, so if his level of playing doesn’t make the cut, the choices are very limited. 

Harry leans over the table and steals Draco’s half-empty butterbeer. “You’re making this very hard,” he says after taking a much-needed sip. 

“Not at all.”


End file.
